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THE STOLEN CHILD. 



hendrik'conscience. 


from t^e Drigitial 


p,^ iri32 ' 

mcT-^ 

JOHN MURPHY & CO. ^ 2 '*-' 

1 892 . 


BALTIMORE: 




Copyright, 1892. 

By John Murphy & Co, 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


CHAPTER 1. 

It was a beautiful morning, the heavens clear 
and blue as the sea; a delicious odor emanated 
from the oak leaves which dilated the lungs and 
gave strength to the heart. 

Catharine left her cottage and hastened to the 
edge of the wood, by the pathway which led to 
the main road of the village of Orsdael. 

Although she walked rapidly, her eyes were 
fastened to the ground as one whose mind is bent 
under the weight of some anguish. Shaking her 
head, and turning her eyes towards the castle, 
with an expression of sadness, she thought 
without doubt of the fate of poor Martha Sweerts, 
of the bitter abuses to which she must each day 
submit, and of the fruitlessness of her efforts to 
discover the impenetrable secret. 

Upon reaching the road she perceived about 
a hundred yards from her the steward of the 
castle. If she could only speak with Matthew, 
she would be delighted; for a week had passed 
since she had seen her friend, and perhaps this 

3 


4 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


occasion would allow her to slip in some word in 
her favor. 

Quickening her steps, she overtook the stew- 
ard, and joining him said in a sweet low voice: 

“I wish you good morning, Mr. Matthew. 
How bright and fresh the air is! It makes one 
feel young again.’’ 

“Really beautiful weather . . . Good day,” 
murmured Matthew without looking at the 
peasant. 

At the same time he slackened his steps, as if 
he wished to remain behind. 

Catherine walked on, then turning once more 
towards him, said: 

‘ ‘ Pardon me for being so bold as to ask you a 
question; my respect and affection for you will 
excuse me. You seem ill; but I hope it will 
prove nothing.” 

“I am not ill,” replied Matthew crossly. 

“You are probably grieved? some one has per- 
haps annoyed you.” 

“Yes, I am grieved and angry. And you, 
Catherine, have worked against me more than all 
the others. But I would like to believe that you, 
as well as I, have been deceived by a false appear- 
ance.” , 

“I, the cause of your sadness?” cried the 
peasant with astonishment. “Impossible, sir!” 

“Have you not always exaggerated praise for 
the new governess? Have you not always painted 
your friend as a sweet, amiable, good woman? 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


5 


Have you not made me believe that she was 
grateful for my friendship, and showed me some 
affection ?’ ’ 

“And is it not so, sir?” 

“Be quiet Catherine! The governess is proud, 
rude and bad-tempered. In the beginning, she 
knew how to disguise her defects; but now 
she scarcely takes the trouble to answer me. I 
almost believe, when I reflect on her arrogant 
conduct, that she looks on me as her servant. 
But there will be an end to this. To protect 
her against the countess, I have laid myself open 
to quarrels and disputes from morning until 
night . . . and have been recompensed by a 
cold disdain. No, no, this cannot continue. I 
have already allowed my peace to be disturbed 
too long in the interest of such an ungrateful 
person. She must leave Orsdael!” 

Surprised and deeply moved by these words, 
Catharine bowed her head and listened in dis- 
may. She was perhaps absorbed in her thoughts, 
and was trying to And a way to ward off the fatal 
blow which threatened her unfortunate friend. 

Matthew, delighted to find an opportunity of 
showing his ill temper, continued: 

“You have read trouble in my countenance? 
Yes, I grant it: I have cause for it. How it 
happened, I do not know; but, from the first 
time I saw Martha, I felt a sincere affection for 
her, and have never ceased to protect and defend 
her. What return do I ask? A little friendship. 


6 


THE STOEEN CHILD. 


nothing more — and she, she appears to fear and 
hate me. That troubled me, but it is ended 
now; I also am beginning to dislike her. Do 
you know Catherine of what I was thinking 
when you interrupted me? Should I dismiss the 
governess to-morrow, or should I patiently wait 
eight days? It is natural that this news should 
grieve you ; but you realize no doubt that you as 
well as I have been deceived in the character of 
your friend. . . . Ah, Catherine, how strangely 
you look at me!” 

The peasant fixed her eyes on him with an 
expression of grief and compassion, and silently 
shook her head. 

“I do not understand you,” murmured the as- 
tonished Matthew. “What is the meaning of 
that sad smile?” 

“I dare not speak,” said Catharine sighing. 
“Perhaps I would betray a secret that my poor 
friend wishes to conceal; but believe me, sir, 
your anger is groundless. If you could read 
Martha’s heart, perhaps, in your turn, you would 
recognize that you are far from the truth.” 

“Yes, you still sing the same tune; but it is 
useless. You do not know how she behaves 
towards me; you do not see her haughty indif- 
ference. She shall leave the castle; my peace 
depends upon her departure; I do not wish to be 
despised by one who, without my aid, would 
never have set foot in Orsdael!” 

“ And if her indifference is merely a blind to 


THE STOEEN CHILD. 7 

hide a sentiment with which she reproaches her- 
self?” 

” A sentiment with which she reproaches her- 
self!” repeated Matthew; ‘‘a sentiment of love?” 

“ Apparently.” 

“For whom ?” 

“ Ah! that is her secret.” 

“You joke, Catherine, but that is nothing;” 
slackening his steps a little. “Explain tome 
what you mean?” 

The peasant appeared to be frightened at so 
important a revelation. She stopped and looked 
around her to see if any one should be listening, 
and said in a hesitating voice: 

“ I do not know if I have done right to try 
and understand what is passing in my friend’s 
heart ; but to you also I owe something, and I 
cannot leave you in doubt. You know Martha 
has strict ideas of womanly modesty, and her 
heart is still as pure and simple as that of a 
young girl of twenty.” 

“What! You attempt to make me believe 
that ” — 

“It is very natural, sir. She was raised in a 
convent, and only left it to marry an old man 
whom she scarcely knew. Her husband died so 
short a time afterwards, it seems as if she had 
never been married.” 

“But in what does that concern me? Be 
more explicit.” 

“lam trying my best, sir, to make you un- 


8 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


derstand what I dare not say openly. I beg you, 
have patience with me for a moment. . . Per- 
haps you have already forgotten, but when the 
heart is still youthful there are times when one 
dreams day and night, when the same image is 
always before our eyes, when one struggles in 
vain against a sentiment one would wish to 
smother, but whose power predominates with a 
merciless tyranny. Then we become sad, and 
the person whose presence had moved us is ex- 
actly the one to whom we show indifference, to 
hide from him the secret of our weakness.” 

Catherine had purposely spoken in a slow and 
mysterious tone. She wished to make an im- 
pression on the mind of Matthew, and to awaken 
in his heart by ambiguous words a hope which 
would put an obstacle to Martha’s departure. 
She seemed already to have partly attained her 
object ; for a smile played around his lips, and 
he lowered his eyes with a thoughtful air. 
Nevertheless, he again shook his head with 
distrust. 

“What does that signify ?” said he, ironically. 
These are mere surmises, that prove nothing. 
Do you not know more? Why have you stopped 
me? Continue.” 

“Very well. The man whose image is always 
before her eyes, the man who has so deeply 
touched her heart, the man whom she loves with 
all the faint-heartedness of a first love ” — 

“Very well?” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


9 


“Suppose it were you, sir?” 

“I? Nonsense; it is impossible,” cried 
Matthew, who hid with trouble his emotion, and 
feigned complete incredulity, to draw from 
Catharine a secret the revelation of which would 
fill him with joy. “Martha could not be so in- 
different to my love if she loved me. Did she 
tell you ?’ ’ 

“ A woman — a woman pure and modest like 
Martha — never speaks of such things.” 

“ How do you know it, then?” 

“The governess is very confidential with me, 
sir ; I have understood enough from her words 
to know that her mind is a prey to a secret pas- 
sion. And, as she is always speaking of your 
amiability and your friendship, I believe I am 
right in saying it was of you she was thinking.” 

An ironical smile appeared on Matthew’s lips, 
as he doubted Catharine’s sincerity, although 
he was bewildered by the flattering hope which, 
by careful calculation, she had repeated word 
for word. 

‘ ‘ So she never said anything about it to you ?’ ’ 
he asked with an indifferent air. “ It is nothing 
but an idea of yours. Go on, Catharine; I must 
go to the village; but I do not walk as fast as 
you.” 

Grieved at this apparent defeat, Catharine 
said to him in a supplicating voice: 

“Then may I ask what you have decided in 
my friend’s case? Ah! have pity on her! It 


lO THE STOIvEN CHIED. 

you take your generous protection from her, she 
will have no other means of support; perhaps 
she will be obliged to become a menial. A 
woman of birth, so accomplished and so well 
educated! May I not rely on 5^our goodness, 
sir?” 

“In two days she will have left Orsdael,” an- 
swered Matthew, who thought that Catharine 
had not told all she knew, and that fear would 
make her reveal everything. 

“I pray you, have pity on her,” cried the 
peasant, in great alarm. 

“Her ingratitude must be punished; and I 
want to regain my peace.” 

Catherine remained undecided for a few min- 
utes; it was evident she was struggling with a 
deep emotion. Then sighing she put her mouth 
close to Matthew’s ear and stammered in a 
trembling voice: 

“You have wished it — you have torn from me 
the secret of my unhappy friend. Well! she 
loves you, she thinks of you, and this irresistible 
love is the cause of her grief. With tears in her 
eyes she has told me more than once. Are you 
satisfied now?” 

The steward took the peasant, by both hands, 
and looking in her eyes with mad delight, cried: 

“Ah, Catherine, Catherine repeat it, confirm 
it! Is this indifference but the mask to hide a 
secret love? Martha loves me sincerely, with the 
purity of a first love? You are sure? She has 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


II 


told you herself clearly and distinctly, in a way 
that cannot be misunderstood?’’ 

‘‘Alas! sir,” sighed Catherine with sadness, 
“why have you dragged from me this informa- 
tion? I dare not appear before my friend after 
so disloyal an act.” 

“No, you are unnecessarily alarmed, Cath- 
erine. On the contrary, you should be thankful. 
Without you I should have been unjust; to-mor- 
row she should have received orders to have 
quitted Orsdael forever.” 

“And now who knows if she will remain?” 

“She will stay now, and if the Countess 
wishes to make her life miserable I will be able 
to protect her. Do not be troubled ; I will re- 
ward you also. Your husband’s salary will be 
increased; you will have more land to cultivate. 
Let us go, Catherine ; as we walk we will talk 
of this affair. I now feel my feet light and my 
heart joyous.” 

They started on their route, the steward over- 
come with joy. Before to-morrow he would find 
Martha to ask forgiveness for his unfounded sus- 
picions, and to make her understand with sweet 
words that he understood the cause of her grief. 

Catherine continually sighed whilst he was 
talking. 

“What grieves you now?” asked he ; “you 
.ook as though you are going to cry.” 

Catherine was indeed very sad. To save her 
threatened friend she had had recourse to a dan- 


12 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


gerous lie. What would happen now if the 
steward, emboldened by her false revelation, 
should persecute Martha with proofs of his affec- 
tion? The rude reception of the steward would 
inflame him with anger, and the widow would be 
banished. Catherine did not know what to do ; 
her sole hope was to bring this presumptuous 
man to conduct himself towards Martha with 
respect and moderation. 

He repeated his question: “Well, why are 
you so distressed ?’ ’ 

“Your words frighten me, sir,” she replied. 
“You intend to declare your love to my poor 
friend, and tell her that you know her heart is 
not indifferent to your love. In God’s name, 
spare her this. Do not make her blush in your 
presence. She would certainly fly from Ors- 
dael.” 

“What !” murmured Matthew, “now I do 
not understand you. She loves me; I love her. 
She dare not tell me; I wish to make the con- 
fession light and easy, and she will fly for that? 
It is as if one had committed a crime. What 
does all this mean ? Are there still other secrets 
you have not told me of?” 

“No, sir, there are no other secrets ; but you 
should be just, and you cannot understand the 
delicacy of your position opposed to that of my 
unhappy friend. She is a modest woman. 
What are you to her ? A master, who offers love 
to her. She is to you only a servant, who owes 


THK STOLEN CHILD. 


13 


obedience. It is natural she should try to hide a 
sentiment which would inspire her with fear 
and shame.” 

The steward shook his head and smiled at his 
thoughts, as if these words had caused him to 
reflect. 

“It would be generous of you,” continued 
Catherine, “to spare her timidity. You could 
not give a greater proof of affection than to con^ 
tent yourself with the revelation you have 
drawn from me. . . . Ah, I beg you, do not 
speak of love. You would wound her, and I 
must tell you she would leave Orsdael to protect 
her honor.” 

“Ah, well Catherine, rest easy. I know a 
means of overcoming all difficulties. To-mor- 
row the governess will probably tell you the 
news that she has avowed her love without 
trembling or blushing.” 

The peasant looked at him wuth astonish- 
ment. 

“It is very simple,” he cried; “I am going 
to ask her to marry me . . . Why do you ex- 
claim? I have understood you. For a long 
time Martha has been to me only a servant, and 
would have cause to blush at my love; but if 
she would have the certainty of becoming my 
wife, she would on the contrary have a thousand 
reasons for being proud of my love for her. 
Do you not think so?” 

“Yes, yes,” stammered Catherine, “but what! 


14 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


You would propose marriage to her so quickly, 
to-morrow ?’ ’ 

“Why wait, and prolong her sadness? I have 
thought of it for a long while. After the happy 
assurance you have given me, there is no reason 
to hesitate.” 

“I believe she will be delighted . . . but if 
by chance she should refuse?” 

“If she refuse,” repeated the steward, with 
a look of defiance, “it will be a sign that you 
have deceived me, Catherine; and certainly after 
such an outrage to my feelings, I could not en- 
dure her presence a moment longer in the cas- 
tle. But, bah! she could not refuse. This 
marriage will render her happier. I have a 
pretty little fortune; Martha will then have a 
life of comfort and independence. ’ ’ 

Catherine walked silently for some time whilst 
Matthew rubbed his hands and gave himself up 
to pleasing thoughts. She stopped suddenly, 
saying: 

“Excuse me, sir; it is a great compliment 
for the wife of a poor gardener to go to the vil- 
lage in company with her master; but it is 
necessary that I should go to the little farm, to 
get the linen, and the farmer’s wife expected 
me at nine o’clock.” 

“Very well, Catherine, I wish you ‘Good- 
morning.’ The day after to-morrow you will 
hear that the governess is to become my wife. 
It will be a happy wedding, and as you have so 


THK STOI.KN CHILD. 


15 


helped me, I will do what I can to assist you. 
Back of your house, near the wood, there is a 
barley field; after to-morrow you may cultivate 
it. I give it to you. ” 

The peasant stammered her thanks and has- 
tened down the path, which was lined on either 
side with a thicket of alder trees. Casting her 
eyes around to see if the steward had reached 
the town, and seeing him disappear behind the 
corner of the wood, she hastily retraced her 
steps tQ the castle. 

She was frightened and sad; her heart beat 
furiously. What had she done? Reduced by 
necessity to use extreme measures, she had 
hoped to save her friend by a lie; and now this 
lie would tell against her, be a terrible blow and 
banish her from Orsdael. Whilst walking, she 
tortured herself to know in what way she could 
repair the evil she had done. There remained 
only this hope, that she could persuade Martha 
to play out this comedy with the steward. 
Catherine well knew that her friend would recoil 
from this suggestion with horror; moreover, 
when he declared himself, her hatred would be 
increased; but what could she do against such a 
chain of circumstances? And then Martha had 
undertaken a legitimate warfare against the tor- 
turers of her child. Why should she recoil, when 
the deliverance of her poor Laura would be the 
price of this new sacrifice? 

Catharine soon reached the meadow from 


i6 


THK STOLEN CHILD. 


whence she could see the towers of Orsdael, and 
from her elevation she looked attentively on all 
sides. Suddenly, she uttered a cry of joy and 
surprise upon seeing the governess seated with 
Helen on a bench at the end of the garden, be- 
hind the castle. They were entirely alone, no 
one near but the gardener, who was working 
at some little distance. 

The peasant drew back a step, seemed indif- 
ferent; then advancing slowly as if she were tak- 
ing a walk, she made a sign to the governess. 

The latter, surprised at her singular gestures, 
arose and said to the young girl, “Helen, remain 
here. Catharine has something of importance to 
say to me. Act as if you saw nothing. 

“Rest assured, good Martha,” replied the 
young girl, “I will not move.” 

The peasant came up the path and silently 
approached the widow, who had stepped aside 
and seated herself on a bench, with her back 
turned to the castle. 

“Sit beside me Catharine,” said she, “and 
speak low, for there are many spies about. What 
is the matter with you? — there are tears in your 
eyes.” 

“Yes, my heart is oppressed. You must sub- 
mit to a great trial, Martha and I tremble lest 
your strength will fail you.” 

“What new suffering is imposed? It is noth- 
ing however: my courage will not fail me.” 

Catharine sadly shook her head. 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


17 


“Fatal illusion;” she sighed. “You are so 
happy passing loving moments with your child, 
that you no longer make an effort to deliver hei 
from her sad captivity. Your weakness and 
imprudence will be the cause of great unhappi- 
ness. ^ ’ 

“Catherine, your reproach is unjust! Scarcely 
a moment passes in which I have not before my 
eyes the sacred trust proposed to me.” 

“That may be, but for some weeks you have 
refused to make the sacrifices necessary to attain 
it. You have treated Mr. Matthew so haughtily 
that he has told me to-morrow he will send you 
from the castle.” 

“Heavens!” cried the widow in a smothered 
voice. “To be separated from my child, per- 
haps forever. And I know not what to do, un- 
less there be some means to make them realize 
my natural rights.” 

“Be quiet Martha, everything depends on 
your will and strength of character. You have 
the choice — you yourself are called upon to pro- 
nounce your sentence. If you can understand 
how far it is necessary for a mother to sacrifice 
herself to her child’s happiness, the infallible 
means is offered you. If you hesitate, if the 
necessary resolution fails you, to-morrow you 
will be far from Orsdael, and your Laura will 
remain the daughter and victim of Madame de 
Bruinsteen, until a premature death, or weak 
mind crowns the wickedness of her tormentors.” 


l8 THE STOLEN CHILD. 

“In mercy spare me, Catherine. Speak 
plainly. Why put me through this torture?’’ 

“It is necessary, Martha. You should under- 
stand that the least weakness could become a 
crime, and that your reply would decide a 
supreme moment in the life of your child, and 
your own happiness.” 

Taking her friend’s hand, and pressing it with 
tender compassion, she said : 

“Have courage, and listen calmly to me. 
Mr. Matthew is going to give you a solemn and 
decisive trial. To-morrow he will propose to 
you . . . ask you to become his wife. Do not 
refuse him.” 

“The wife of Matthew !” cried the widow, 
becoming deathly pale. “I marry a man so 
vile and low !” 

“You misunderstand me,” interrupted the 
peasant. “ I do not mean to say that you should 
become the wife of this despicable man. Ap- 
pear to accept his proposition. There are a 
hundred ways of withdrawing afterwards ; you 
will then have, as the fiancee of Matthew, the 
right to inquire about his past life, and if you 
know how to take it, the discovery of the secret 
cannot escape you. The deliverance of your 
child will then be the price of your sacrifice : 
can you not find in your mother’s heart the 
strength necessary to conquer ? Tet us go, dear 
Martha ; satisfy me ; tell me that you will sub- 
mit with courage to this last proof. You do not 
reply ?’ ’ 


THE STOLEN CHILD. I5 

‘‘Ah! let me weep,” said Martha, sighing; 
“ tears will calm my anguish, and relieve my 
mind.” 

“For the love of God, Martha, let us not lose 
time. They may surprise us at any time, and 
interrupt our conversation. Have pity on your 
child ; her fate is in your hands. Let us decide: 
will she be free and happy, or condemned to 
madness or a slow death? Tell me, free me 
from this anguish that makes me tremble.” 

Martha replied with a troubled smile, “Let 
him believe that I will become his wife ? Alas, 
it is well that it is exacted from me. Well! if 
you believe that a word can save my child, I 
will promise it. Let us pray, Catherine, that 
my courage will be as strong as my hatred, my 
indignation.” 

“Thanks, thanks ; I was wrong to doubt the 
strength of your will.” . . . 

“Hush! say no more. I hear something 
back of the syringa bush,” interrupted Martha. 

They listened in silence ; it was the gardener, 
who came towards them, a bundle of long- 
branches on his shoulders that struck the 
leaves as he passed. He passed apparently 
without noticing them ; nevertheless, he gave a 
sidelong glance at the young girl, and raised 
his shoulders half in irony, half in compassion, 
seeing her seated on the bench, her head bent, 
immovable as an idiot. 

‘ ‘ Listen, dear Martha, ’ ’ said Catherine. “You 


20 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


must listen to the declaration of love from the 
steward ; he will not fail you in this extremity, 
he will give you proofs of tenderness. If you 
repulse him with hauteur, he will conclude that 
you hate him, and will accomplish his first reso- 
lution.” 

“No, Catherine, I can contain myself suffi- 
ciently to make him believe that I listen with 
gratitude.” 

“That will not be sufiicient. He imagines 
that you love him.” 

“The impudent creature !” cried the govern- 
ess. “Tove that monster? Whenever I see 
him my heart sinks within me.” 

“I know it; but you must feign to love him. 

You must tell him frankly you love him. The 
thought makes you shudder. You are shaking 
like a reed. Does^he then inspire you with such 
horror. ’ ’ 

“An inexpressible horror, Catherine. Judge 
and decide. Last week he cruelly struck my 
poor little Laura, so that for several days she 
bore the mark of it. And I am to tell him I 
love him ! Who could do such violence to thein- 
.selves? Ah, yes ! for the happiness of my child 
I would suffer a thousand cruel deaths; but \ 
courage fails me for this self-abasement, for this 
moral suicide.” 

“ But there is only the choice,” said the peas- 
ant, “of being sent from Orsdael and leaving \ 
your child with her tormentors, or accepting 
this odious alternative.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


21 


The widow endured untold suffering ; her face 
was deathly pale, she wrung her hands silently, 
nervous chills shook her whole body. 

“What a terrible thought,” she murmured. 
“The most cruel enemy my child has to speak to 
me of love. I must listen to him . . . and say: 
‘I love you !’ Soil my lips with such words !” 

After a long silence, and her emotion was 
somewhat calmed, Catherine said : 

“My dear Martha, it is a decisive combat, 
and you should calculate the chances with cool- 
ness — as a soldier who sees either victory or 
death before his eyes. Perhaps the effort will 
not be so great. I have begged Matthew to be 
prudent ; perhaps he will content himself with 
some ambiguous words. Let us hope that he 
will not overstep the limit ; but, should he do 
so, do not forget that you will repent forever, 
should you by your weakness condemn your 
child to slavery and despair. I have compassion 
on your sad fate ; I would thank God, could I 
suffer in your place; but ...” 

At this moment, a window in the castle was 
violently opened, and an angry voice called the 
governess by name. 

“It is the Countess!” cried the frightened 
Martha. “I have forgotten the hour. We 
should return . . . Keep at a distance, Cather- 
ine. Ah! how I will be scolded and insulted!” 

The peasant said in leaving: 

“Cost what it will, Martha, I must speak to 


22 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


you again to-day, to prepare you for your great 
trial. I also have undertaken a warfare against 
the tormentors of your child.” 

The widow murmured in approaching her 
daughter: “Follow me, Helen, the Countess 
. . . your mother has called us.” 

The young girl hastened silently by the side 
of her governess, until they were out of sight 
of the window. Then she asked in an almost 
unintelligible voice. “Martha, what did you 
say to Catharine? Your cheeks are pale, you are 
grieved — is it not so?” 

“ It is nothing,” stammered the widow; “sad 
news, my emotion will pass away.” 

“I have not much confidence in Catharine. 
She is kind to you, but she is always smiling 
and chatting with the steward. She is perhaps 
a wicked woman.” 

“A wicked woman?” repeated the widow. 

‘ ‘ She is good and self-denying. She loves you 
as if you were her own child.” 

“You have suddenly changed her by an effect 
of your great power. Formerly she came fre- 
quently to the castle; many times she heard the 
cruel injuries with which I was overwhelmed, 
and never even a sign of compassion changed 
her countenance.” 

“Helen, Helen! you are unjust without know- 
ing it. This woman would give her life to see 
you happy. Some day all this will be explained 
to you ... Be silent now, there is the gardener; 
perhaps he can hear us. ’ ’ 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


23 


• CHAPTER II. 

The governess was sitting in her room, with 
bowed head and closed eyes; every few moments 
she sighed deeply. At last raising her head 
slowly and looking around her, a sad smile ap- 
peared on her lips, the expression of her face 
was a mixture of suffering, resignation and con- 
tempt. 

After a while her thoughts wandered in 
another direction, she put her hand in her 
bosom, and drawing out a gold locket opened it. 

She looked at the portrait for some time with 
a kind of fear. In Martha’s present mood it 
seemed to her that the soldier’s eyes became 
lifelike and looked at her in a reproachful man- 
ner. This thought made such an impression on 
her that she instinctively felt the face to be that 
of a terrible accuser; again looking at it, she 
said in a trembling voice: 

“Ah! my Hector, how severe you look! No, 
no, have no fear of my courage; I will fulfil the 
mission with which you charged me, on your 
death-bed. If I have hesitated at this supreme 
moment, it was for love of you, it was to pro- 
tect the heart which on this side of the grave 
continues to love you, even against the proba- 


24 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


bility of a crime. Now the struggle is over: 
The mother has triumphed over the wife, she 
will empty the chalice to its dregs. Ah, it is a 
horrible martyrdom! to thus descend to this 
abyss of self-abasement: but to deliver our child, 
the pledge of our love.” 

She stood up as if she had been struck a 
blow, and listened, growing paler . . . think- 
ing she had heard a voice in the corridor. She 
was unable to move until convinced of her 
error; but a cry of agony escaped her and caused 
her to tremble and cry in a stifled voice: 

“Courage! Will! and already I tremble and 
turn pale at the fear alone of his appearance.” 

She let herself fall in a chair. Without doubt 
renewed strength had entered her heart, for a 
smile of defiance slowly curved her lips and a 
flash of courage lighted her eyes. 

She arose and went into an inner chamber, 
placed herself before the blinds, and looked 
across the square, where the young girl was sit- 
ting in a corner studying her lessons. 

Martha remained quiet so as not to attract her 
attention. She fixed her eyes on her child, to 
draw in this long and loving look the strength 
to undergo this dreaded trial. 

At this moment, she distinctly heard a door 
open. A faint pallor overspread her cheeks. 
When she returned to her room her bosom 
heaved and her breathing became oppressed. 
But this emotion seemed to be more a sign of 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


25 


strong will and courage than of fear. After 
giving a last supplicating look towards Hea^^en, 
she seated herself by the table, picked up her 
work with an affectation of indifference, and 
awaited the arrival of Matthew. 

The steward entered the room and made a few 
pleasant remarks. Although it was only the 
middle of the week, he had on his best clothes, 
and in order to be in keeping with the circum- 
stances had put on white gloves. His appear- 
ance in this solemn costume had at first caused 
Martha to tremble, but influenced by necessity 
she arose smiling and replied to his salutations 
with gentle grace. 

This amicable reception encouraged the stew- 
ard. Approaching her, his countenance began 
to brighten, and he said gayly: 

“My dear Martha, you are no doubt aston- 
ished to see me in this costume? For a long 
time I have had a heavy heart. Separated by a 
sad misunderstanding, a grief that we dared not 
declare has caused both of us suffering; but I 
come to break the ice . . . Man is weak . . . 
be not angry . . . it is not my fault Martha, if 
you are beautiful, and if I am not insensible ’’ — 

The steward had thought that it would not be 
difficult to make his request. After all that 
Catherine had told him, he was convinced that 
the governess would receive his offer, if not 
with enthusiasm, at least with sincerity. 
Nevertheless his familiar air and clever words 


26 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


had frightened Martha; although at her coin 
-mand a smile appeared on her lips, there was at 
the same time a look of severity that in- 
timidated the steward. He knew not what to 
say and stammered: 

“ I do not know . . . but . . . it is strange 
. . . when one’s heart is affected . , . their 
ideas are confused ... It seems a simple and 
easy matter . . . but, then . . . either at forty 
or twenty, love is but love. I came to speak to 
you of something which without doubt should 
be agreeable to you, and I know not how to 
commence.” 

“You are wrong, sir,” replied the Governess 
in a sweet voice. “Speak; whatever you have 
to tell me, I will listen to with attention. Will 
you take a chair?” 

“Yes, that would be better,” replied Mat- 
thew, somewhat amazed. “You seem troubled. 
It is the fear that the Countess will surprise us, 
is it not ? Do not worry, I have sent her on a 
trivial pretext to the large farm. She will be 
away at least an hour. “You see we are no 
longer children, Martha. Can I speak to you 
frankly ?’ ’ 

“Yes, speak freely, sir.” 

“ But it is not as the steward, nor as master, 
that I would speak to you: it is as a friend.” 

“You are too kind, sir.” 

“Well, that is not a bad commencement,” 
said Matthew, rubbing his hands. “We will 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


27 


understand each other from the beginning, 
Martha. Listen! No doubt you have long since 
remarked how from the first day of your arrival 
at Orsdael, I have always been friendly; how I 
have protected you against the cruelty and 
hatred of the Countess; how T followed you, to 
have^ the happiness of meeting and speaking to 
you. Can you not guess the cause of this at- 
tention?’^ 

“I believe I have already guessed it, sir. It 
frightened me; for I am only a servant.” 

“A servant! But you have beauty, you have 
the eyes of a queen. From the first time that I 
saw you, Martha, I was struck by your personal 
charms, by your conversation, by your enticing 
smile. . . Do not tremble so, my friend; my 
intentions are pure and honest. I know that 
where modesty is concerned you are stern and 
severe. This reserve deceived me at first in 
making me believe that you despised me; but I 
attach a high price to virtue, above all in you, 
dear Martha. It seems sufficient to tell that I 
love you; you have known it a long time. 
Nevertheless you do not yet know the depth of 
my affection. Night and day I think of you; 
your image is always before me; my dearest 
dream is to make you my companion through 
life and never to be separated from you, my dear 
Martha. ’ ’ 

While pronouncing these passionate words, 
Matthew had taken the widow’s hand. She was 


28 


THE STOEEN CHILD. 


pale, and notwithstanding the great effort she 
made, she could not conceal her emotion, or 
that she was trembling. Happily, Matthew was 
mistaken as to the cause of her trouble. 

“Pardon me, Martha,” he said in a calm 
voice; “pardon my excited words, I pray you. 
Before making a formal declaration of the object 
of my visit, tell me that you are not altogether 
indifferent to my love. I know that you have a 
tender and grateful heart; but it would sound so 
sweet to hear one flattering word from your 
cherished lips.” 

“What is it you ask of me, sir?” stammered 
the widow, nearly giving way to her feelings. 
“What answer do you wish me to give?” 

“One word; only ‘yes,’ low and sweet. 
Martha, Martha, do you love me?” 

The governess silently bowed her head, a 
deep red color overspreading her forehead and 
cheeks. She was suffering horribly, and fought 
with despair against the shame which wounded 
her heart. 

Matthew looked at her with an expression of 
triumphant joy. He was already quite old, and 
wished to obtain for his wife a beautiful woman, 
sweet and blushing like a young girl at the least 
word that would shock her modesty. He re- 
spected her silence for a moment, then asked: 

“You have nothing to say to me, Martha? 
You refuse me the answer which will render me 
happy?” 


THK STOI.KN CHILD. 


39 

“A woman . . . my position towards you . . . 
you wish to draw this confession from me?” 

“ I pray you, Martha. ” 

“Ah well, yes,” said the governess in a voice 
almost unintelligible. 

Matthew opened his arms and uttered a cry of 
joy; but the widow bounded from her chair, 
drew back, and with a look of indignation and 
fear she cried : 

“ Oh! sir, spare my dignity as a woman. Do 
you wish to make me believe that you really 
love me ? Respect at least your love for me. ’ ’ 

“ You are right, Martha; happiness' has made 
me forget myself;” murmured the steward, over- 
come and almost disconcerted. “Ret us sit 
down, and listen to me. You are wrong to be 
frightened at the first expressions of my sincere 
love, and you must confess it. You see, my dear, 
for the past fifteen years I have been steward for 
the Countess of Bruinsteen. I have made money, 
and have few expenses. I possess means to ren- 
der the wife whom I choose independent and 
happy. My heart is young, my health is good, 
and I am still quite vigorous. Your sweet words, 
kind manner, a something inexplicable, a mys- 
terious charm in your eyes . . . Ah! ah! see 
how I talk . . . you certainly have a suspicion 
of what I wish to say to you, Martha. You con- 
sent with joy, do you not?. This hesitation 
. . . you do not yet understand me.” 

“I dare not understand you. Sir,” said the 


30 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


governess. Such a favor, such an honor for a 
poor servant! ” 

“You understand me, Martha? Well! I will 
speak more clearly. Will you become my wife 
and share my fortune? Give me your hand, 
and all will be said.” 

Martha put her hand in his. 

“You are touched, you tremble;” cried Mat- 
thew joyfully. “It is but natural: I tremble 
with joy myself. Be calm now, Martha; the 
matter is settled. Do not thank me, my dear; if 
I offer you an independent life, free from all 
care, you will give me in return all that a man 
could desire for his happiness. We are then 
quits. We will not wait long. Some will at- 
tempt to prevent our marriage; it is useless for 
them to try to raise objections.” 

“Yes, the Countess!” said the governess with 
a sigh. “As soon as she learns what you have 
said to me to-day, she will dismiss me.” 

“Dismiss you?” cried the steward with a de- 
fiant air. “The Countess will be furious, and 
will probably abuse you ; but fear not, no matter 
what she may say or do, she will yield to my 
will. I possess infallible means to bring her to 
terms.” 

A spark of hope shone in Martha’s eyes ; she 
raised her head, giving to her face a serious ex- 
pression, and said : 

“Pardon me, sir, but I believe, without being 
indiscreet, that I have in the past few minutes 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


31 


acquired the right to question you about certain 
things that inspire me with distrust, and worry 
me. ’ ’ 

“Certainly, Martha, you have all the privi- 
leges of a betrothed.” 

“Well, sir, show me that you are sincere. For 
a long time I have wondered why the Countess 
follows and watches you. Why does your 
friendship for me inspire her with jealousy, 
and put her in such a temper . . . ?” 

“Nonsense! it is simply because she hates 
me, and does not like her servants to have more 
respect and affection for me than for her.” ■ 

“I believe it . . . Could you deceive me?” ■ 

“What an idea, Martha!”* 

“Well, if there were only appearances, I 
should do wrong to be uneasy, but there is an- 
other mystery that frightens me ; in spite of 
your position as steward of the castle, you are, 
nevertheless, in the service of the Countess ; she 
has a right to your obedience. How is it, then, 
when it is necessary, she is under your power, 
and will bend to your will, as you say?” 

.Matthew seemed confused at this question, 
and stammered a reply. This hesitation made 
Martha tremble with hope and joy. She replied 
with assumed sadness : 

“The cause of your influence over the Count- 
ess is then of such a nature that the woman to 
whom you have offered your heart cannot know 
it; and this secret, iff discover it, would it not 


33 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


induce me to refuse your proposal? For alas! 
in spite of myself, I am obliged to suspect your 
sincerity 1” 

“No, my dear Martha, you are wrong. The 
business of which you speak cannot in any 
manner influence our affection, or affect my 
loyalty.” 

“Why do you conceal from me this reason 
with so much care?” 

“There are things that one cannot say,” 
murmured Matthew; “above all, when it is 
without interest . . . Why desire to know it?” 

“It is then a secret?” cried the governess. 
“A secret between us already!” 

“Well, yes, it is a secret,” he replied. “My 
happiness, and in consequence yours, hangs upon 
the slightest indiscretion.” 

“Oh, satisfy me, banish this doubt from my 
mind; give me this proof of love.” 

“No, Martha, no one but my wife can have 
the same interest as I in keeping this secret.” 

The widow clasped her hands, sighed, and 
with a pathetic look, said: 

“Matthew, Matthew, I beg, I supplicate 
you.” 

“The day of our marriage you will know the 
secret; not before. I must remain inflexible, 
although when under the influence of your look 
I lose confidence in myself. But, what do I 
hear? That voice below? It is the Countess? 
She has returned in haste, furious no doubt that 


THE wSTOLEN CHILD. 


33 


I have deceived her! I^et us go. I leave you, 
Martha. When her anger has passed I will an- 
nounce to her our approaching marriage. You 
tremble anew. Calm yourself. If madame ques- 
tions you, say that I have scolded you. That 
will satisfy her. Good bye! the Countess shrieks 
as if she were possessed; she is looking for me. 
We will speak later of the means to hasten our 
marriage. ’ ’ 

Martha arose, and followed him to the door. 
A sudden fancy seizing the steward, he turned 
and took Martha in his arms. The governess 
jumped back and uttered a cry. Matthew left 
the room overcome with laughter. 

The widow fell on a chair completely over- 
come with grief and shame. At times she 
♦would raise her eyes towards heaven, but she 
was not left long to relieve her bursting heart. 
The Countess rudely entered the room, calling, 

“Where is the steward? I ask you, where is 
the steward? Do you not hear me, impertinent 
minx.” 

“ He was here but a moment ago, madame.” 

“Where has he gone?” 

“ I do not know, madame.” 

“Ah! what do these tears mean?” 

“ He scolded me, madame.” 

“He scolded you, and that is why you weep,” 
murmured the Countess, reassured. “He has 
perhaps insulted you?” 

“ He has said words that grieved me much.” 


34 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“He is a false and cruel man, is lie not?’’ 

“ Yes, madame, a false and cruel man.” 

“Bah! pay no attention to his brutal manner. 

I am going to reprimand him, the impertinent 
fellow . . . making me ridiculous by sending 

me to the large farm on a fruitless errand! . . . 

Let us go, Martha; console yourself; much better 
he should ill treat you than to deceive you by a 
false friendship. Dry your tears and go walk in 
the garden.” 

“Madame,” said the governess, whose atten- 
tion was awakened by her last words, ‘ ‘ I would 
like very much to see Catherine, the wife of the 
gamekeeper. It would be great consolation in 
my unhappiness.” 

“There is no reason to refuse your request, 
but I would prefer that you would remain in the* 
garden longer with Helen. I was iliuch dis- 
appointed yesterday to be obliged to call you, as 
night was falling. Well, take Helen to the 
keeper’s with you. Catherine is a prudent 
woman. Throw this folly aside, and when you 
have talked a little while with Catherine, return 
to the garden; but do not lose sight of Helen for 
a moment.” 

“Not a moment, madame.” 

“ So you do not know where the steward is?” 

“No, madame; he rushed away as soon as he 
heard your voice below.” 

“The coward! He has hidden himself, no 
doubt, but I will find him. I will know why 
he ridiculed me.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


35 


With these words she left the room, grumbling 
to herself. 

This conversation enabled the widow to sub- 
due the beating of her heart. She was anxious 
to speak to Catherine; she wished to avoid, as 
long as possible, an interview with the steward. 
She reflected a moment, dried her eyes, and 
opened the door of Helen’s room. 

“My child,” she said, “put aside your book; 
we will take a walk. Your mother has given 
us permission to make Catherine a visit.” 

The young girl rose quickly and clapped her 
hands in delight; but suddenly she became quiet 
and asked with anxiety, whilst looking at the 
governess: 

“Martha, what is the matter with you? 
What has happened to you? Your eyes are 
red. Alas! you have been crying.” 

“It is nothing, my dear Helen. The steward 
has grieved me. ’ ’ 

“Oh, my God, could he abuse you as he does 
me ? ’ ’ 

“No, no; words, only words . . . You are 
unnecessarily frightened. Be quick, put on 
your neckerchief. The weather is beautiful.” 

The young girl was in the habit of obeying 
without replying, so when the governess ex- 
pressed a desire not to be questioned she was 
silent, convinced that Martha concealed many 
secrets; but she believed at the same time that 
on them depended the stay of her protectress at 


36 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Orsdael. She prepared in silence to follow her 
governess. Reaching the castle gate, she at- 
tempted by bright words to console Martha; 
finally, seeing her absorbed in deep thought, she 
walked silently by her side. The keeper’s 
house was open, but no one was there. After 
searching for some time they saw Catherine 
working in the garden, tearing up the weeds. 
As soon as the peasant saw the young girl and 
her governess, she rose and ran to meet them. 
She tried to satisfy her curiosity by looking 
hard at the governess. After politely bowing to 
the young girl, she turned toward her friend 
and said in a low voice: 

“Your coming to me tells me that Matthew 
has spoken to you. Well, how has it passed? 
Will you remain at Orsdael?” Martha made 
her understand that she could not speak of such 
things before the young girl. She cast her eyes 
around the garden. It was surrounded by a 
high wall, covered with ivy and honeysuckle. 
She could see an opening in the wall, but it was 
near the house, and one seated in the arbor 
could not be seen from the outside. 

“Go Helen, sit down on the bench in the 
arbor,” said the governess, “I must go for a 
moment with Catherine to speak on a matter of 
importance. Wait; in my work-bag you will 
find my knitting. Have patience for a little 
while, and I will return.” 

She went into the house with Catherine, 
whose heart beat with curiosity. 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


37 


The young girl walked slowly up the path, 
gathered flowers here and there, making a 
bouquet, which she placed in her bosom. Then 
seating herself on the bench, she continued knit- 
ting something commenced by Martha. Whilst 
her hands quickly worked the needles, she looked 
dreamily before her, forgetting what she was do- 
ing. The governess remained much longer than 
she had said; but Helen seemed not to notice her 
absence. Perhaps she was thinking of the traces 
of tears she had seen in Martha’s eyes; perhaps 
she wondered what could be the mystery with 
which she was surrounded. Perhaps also a 
cherished image appeared before her eyes, for 
occasionally a sweet smile parted her lips. Let 
it be what it would, her thoughts became so 
absorbing that she ceased knitting, let her head 
fall on her breast, and with closed eyes thought 
deeply. 

Whilst she was so deep in thought, a man 
came up the path to the opening in the wall, 
stopped, and cast an indifferent glance around 
the garden. He was a young man, handsome, 
and dressed with care. He continued his walk, 
when perceiving from afar the young girl motion- 
less and with bowed head a stifled cry escaped 
him. He glided along the wall on tip-toe and 
approached her. Five or six steps from her he 
put his finger on his mouth and whispered: 

“Helen, dear Helen.’’ 

The young girl rose trembling, ready to utter 


THE STOEEN CHIED. 


38 

a cry of terror; but the sign that he made, and 
the pleading look in his eyes, arrested the cry on 
her lips. 

“Silence, I beg you ! Do not deprive me of 
this moment of happiness,” he murmured. 

“Frederick, Frederick! go away, leave this 
place.” 

“No, no! it is necessary that I have a few 
words with you, cost what it will.” 

“Alas!” sighed the girl with tears in her 
eyes, “my mother has driven Rosalie away be- 
cause you have spoken to me. If Martha, my 
good friend, is sent away, I shall die of grief.” 

“It is not the same thing; besides, fate or- 
dains it. This is not the time to hesitate. Now, 
my dear, quiet yourself ; let us sit on this bench, 
they cannot see us.” 

He took her hand and led her to the bench 
in spite of her supplications and resistance. 
Finally, seating himself beside her, be said: 

“Helen, I was ill at Brussels, quite ill; be 
quiet, do not tremble so.” 

“Ill,” repeated the young girl; “ob! that is 
wby my heart was filled with grief, and wby I 
wept when I thought of you.” 

“Thanks, Helen, for your faithful remem- 
brance. So you have not forgotten me?” 

“ Forgotten, Frederick. . You and Martha are 
the only creatures in the world who love me.” 

The young man shook his head, and said 
quickly : 


THE STOEEN CHIED. 


39 


“We have no time to exchange sweet words. 
Tell me, Helen, where is your governess from?’’ 

“From Brussels, Frederick.” 

“What is her family name?” 

“ She calls herself Martha — Martha Sweerts.” 

“Who is she ? ” 

“I do not know.” 

“Was she not related to the Count, your de- 
ceased father? — a cousin or an aunt of yours?” 

“No.” 

“Was she not sent by some one of your family 
to protect you ? ” 

“ I do not think so.” 

“You do not know, you do not think it;” 
murmured Frederick. “Her presence here 
hides a secret. ” 

“Yes, yes, many secrets; but do not attempt 
to penetrate them, Frederick. My happiness, 
perhaps, depends on it.” 

“Your happiness? But are you sure this 
woman is sincere ? ” 

“Oh, my friend! this doubt is a serious in- 
justice, even to suspect her. She is an angel 
of compassion and generosity.” 

“It is then true? Indeed, Helen, she must 
belong to your father’s family, for blood alone 
could inspire the words and sentiments to which 
she gave expression before me. If I did not 
know you to be Madame de Bruinsteen’s daugh- 
ter, I would certainly think Martha your 
mother. ’ ’ 


40 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“Yes, yes,” cried the girl with proud delight, 
“she is my mother in heart and soul! Ah! 
Frederick, would it not be easy to be happy 
could one have a mother like Martha?” 

‘ ‘ Has she never told you why she loves you so 
passionately, or who has sent her to protect and 
console you?” 

“Ah! Frederick, she tells me strange things. 
Do you know who has sent her to me? A man 
who has been for the past twenty years a hero; 
an officer of the hussars, with the decoration of 
the Legion of Honor.” 

“An officer of hussars?” cried the young man. 

“Yes, a lieutenant of hussars, who loved me 
before I was born.” 

“Ah! that is the secret. Continue, Helen.” 

“Well, it is he who has sent her to me, and 
when Martha prays for me he frequently appears 
and tells her to love me always. It is strange; I 
do not understand it; but rest assured it is true, 
for Martha has said it, and what Martha says” — 

A rude burst of laughter interrupted her; she 
saw in the opening in the wall a man who shook 
his fist, crying with all the strength of his lungs: 

“Ah, ah, coquette, you are still there! I will 
run find the Countess to tell her all that has 
passed here. It will be bad for you this time, 
will it not?” 

Helen rose quickly, completely overcome by 
this threat, and rushed towards the house utter- 
ing piercing cries. Frederick attempted to quiet 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


41 


her, but seeing she could no longer listen to him, 
he went through the opening and disappeared 
behind the wall. 

‘ ‘ What is the matter ? What has happened ? ’ ’ 
cried the widow and the peasant simultaneously, 
rushing into the garden. “Who spoke of the 
Countess in so loud and threatening a manner? ” 

“Ah! Martha, dear Martha, forgive me!” 
begged the frightened girl, throwing her arms 
around the neck of her governess, crying bit- 
terly. “I am guilty. I have done wrong. You 
will be sent away from Orsdael, and I will die 
of grief.” 

“No, no; do not be so distressed, my dear 
Helen,” said the widow, caressing her, “speak, 
tell me what has happened.” 

“Frederick, Frederick was in the garden ...” 

“O my God ! Frederick in the garden with 
you,” cried the two women. 

“Yes, and I wanted to call you, but he would 
not allow me . . . I have no strength — his 
eyes, the sound of his voice .... Whilst I 
listened to him, in guilty forgetfulness of my- 
self, the gardener appeared one side of the 
wall. He had seen Frederick, and ran to the 
castle to inform my mother. Alas ! alas ! Good 
Martha, what I suffer is nothing. I deserve it ; 
but you? Help me, I feel faint; my strength 
seems to be leaving me.” 

The governess pressed the girl to her heart, 
embraced her tenderly, whispering in her ear 
a thousand consoling words. 


42 


THE STOEEN CHIED. 


“Come, my child,” said the widow, taking 
her by the arm ; “we cannot remain here. Your 
mother will be still more indignant if we do not 
return immediately.” 

Before leaving the gamekeeper’s house, 
Catherine took Martha’s hand, and looking in 
her eyes, said : 

“Martha, you are indeed the daughter of a 
soldier. I can see what is passing in your heart, 
and I admire your courage. Mr. Matthew will 
protect you both from the cruelty of the Countess. 
Find him immediately, call him to your aid; he 
will be your defender.” 

When the widow and young girl reached the 
road leading to the castle, they quickened their 
steps, but exchanged few words. Helen en- 
treated her governess to forgive her selfish care- 
lessness, and lamented, in anticipation, the loss 
of her generous protectress. Martha, although 
half-dead with anxiety, tried to hide her feel- 
ings, to spare the distress of her child, and give 
her courage to accept the cruel punishment 
which without doubt awaited her. 

They saw the old cook, who ran towards them 
with the gardener. The latter, when he had 
joined them, said to Martha in a rude, coarse 
manner : 

“Madam, give the key of the upper room to 
Marion. The Countess wishes it. Do not op- 
pose her orders, or I will use violence to take 
the keys. You can no longer go up there.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


43 


“It is true, Martha,” added the cook in a low 
voice; “You must leave Miss Helen with me. 
The countess is waiting for you in the drawing- 
room. ’ ’ 

“The keys!” murmured Martha, with dread. 
“And Helen, what will she do? Oh, heavens !” 

“Oh! she will be severely punished for her 
imprudence,” sighed Marion. “She is guilty, 
nevertheless. I pity her.” 

“ She will abuse her?” 

The cook made a sign in the affirmative, and 
seeing Martha grow pale and tremble, she whis- 
pered : 

“Do not be so worried ; I will try to remain 
with Miss Helen until this storm blows over.” 

“The steward ! Where is the steward, Mar- 
ion?” cried Martha. 

“ He is not in the castle. I believe he is in 
the woods near the woodcutter’s. Run quickly 
to the Countess, Martha; it cannot be as terrible 
as you think. ” 

“Have courage, Helen; do not weep any 
more. I alone am the cause of it all, and I 
alone must suffer for my imprudence.” 

“Oh, no, no,” cried Helen; “you are inno- 
cent; I will tell my mother. If she wishes to 
punish any one for what has happened, I am the 
one to suffer. Oh, I beg you, Martha, do not 
render me doubly unhappy.” 

But a severe look and an imperious gesture 
made her understand that she must submit 


44 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


without replying. She became silent, and 
bowed her head. 

The governess gave the keys to Marion, 
looked anxiously at her daughter, and ran, 
trembling, into the castle. 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


45 


CHAPTER III. 

Before entering the drawing-room, Martha 
hesitated a moment, finally summoned courage, 
and knocked gently at the .door. 

“ Come in,” cried a brusque voice. 

Madame de Bruinsteen was seated in an arm- 
chair. Her eyes flashed, there was a sarcastic 
and triumphant smile on her lips. She was de- 
lighted because this unexpected event had given 
her an opportunity to vent her rage on the wo- 
man she hated. On entering the room the 
widow murmured a few words of apology; but 
the Countess did not give her time to speak 
plainly, and said in an ironical tone: 

“Ah! ah! you are here? Well, cowardly 
hypocrite, how much money did Frederick give 
you to deceive me ? How many falsehoods did 
he tell? Madame is well informed and cau- 
tious; one must weigh their words with her — 
she is so sensible ! . . . And that miserable 
thief sold the honor of my house for money ! 
Yes, yes, do you still dare to excuse yourself? 
You have assurance enough, but now you are 
caught in your own trap. Nothing can save 
you. If I do not take care I will crush you 
under my feet, viper that you are! but I wish 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


46 

to contain myself. I am anxious to know what 
ridiculous means you have employed to escape 
the punishment of your cowardly act. Speak, 
and be quick, for it is now useless ; in a few 
moments your fate will be decided.” 

Martha joined her hands and said in a plead- 
ing voice, while great tears coursed down her 
cheeks: 

‘‘ Oh! madame, I understand your anger — it is 
just; but let me explain to you how this mis- 
fortune happened. Perhaps you will see some 
reason why you should not be so inexorable 
towards your poor servant.” 

“ Not so much preamble, if you please.” 

“With your permission I took Helen to the 
game-keeper’s with me. Catherine was in the 
garden, so I made Helen sit in the arbor whilst 
I went into the house to speak with my friend. 
During my absence Mr. Bergmans crept into 
the garden through an opening in the wall and 
talked with Helen . . . ” 

“And you did not know he was there?” in- 
terrupted the Countess. 

“Believe me, madame, I was completely igno- 
rant of his presence at Orsdael.” 

“There! I now recall your anxiety to go to 
the gamekeeper’s; you were so deceitful as to 
choose your usual hour of walking with Helen, 
in fact, to drag from me permission to go; you 
seated Helen in the garden, where she could talk 
freely with her lover. He came . . . And this 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


47 


clever scheme you would make me believe is a 
chance meeting? You have, indeed, a poor 
opinion of my wit, if you hope to deceive me by 
such petty subterfuges.” 

“I am innocent, madame, I swear it!” 

The Countess burst out laughing. 

“An oath!” she cried, “what does that sig- 
nify from the mouth of a shameless traitress? 
Did I not give orders that Helen should not be 
out of your sight for a moment? ” 

“ Indeed yes, madame,” sighed the poor 
woman, “ in that I disobeyed your orders. For 
that I repent most bitterly; it is the only fault 
with which I reproach myself; and for that, on 
bended knee, I beg your forgiveness.” 

“ Forgiveness ? We will see! Did he remain 
long with Helen?” 

“Two or three minutes, madame.” 

“ So long! And what did he say to her?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“Did she not call you?” 

‘ ‘ I believe so, madame, but I did not hear her. ’ ’ 

“Hypocrite! Not hear ten steps away? It 
was all arranged to deceive me. Although you 
seem sad and frightened, you are inwardly con- 
tent. The money that Frederick has given you 
no doubt will indemnify you for your vile 
treachery. Go out of my sight, leave the castle! 
wait at the door, I will send your luggage. 
Beg and pray as you will, you can never again 
be admitted.” 


48 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“Oh! inadame, do not be so unrelenting 
towards me,” cried Martha trembling, with 
anxiety. “You will send me away. Where will 
I go? Have compassion on a poor widow. You 
believe that I would sell myself and expose my- 
self to your just anger? Ah! if you could but 
know that I would give half my life to remain 
in your employ.” 

The Countess appeared not to hear, and rising 
with renewed fury, said: 

“ So much for stupidity and folly; this hour . 
will be the reckoning. I will try to see that 
she does not forget to-day. Yes, henceforth I 
wish that only hearing my name will cause her 
to fear and tremble.” 

These words drew from Martha a distressful 
cry. She threw herself at the feet of the Coun- 
tess, embraced her knees, and had recourse to the 
most pitiful supplications to soften her anger; 
but Madame Bruinsteen only looked at her 
with a triumphant smile on her lips; she rudely 
repulsed her, and in pointing to the door, cried: 

“Go back, go back! no mercy! You have 
been here long enough with the steward to pro- 
voke and defy me. Now you are lost. Matthew 
himself, if he were here, would send you from 
the castle; enough cowardice and useless lies. 
Teave me, I say! Shall I call the servants to 
rid me of you and your hypocritical prayers?” 

But the widow dragged herself after her, be- 
seeching in the most despairing manner. Her 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


49 

words only redoubled the fury and indignation 
of the Countess. 

“What!” she cried, “have I understood 
you? Mercy? — you ask mercy for the idiot? 
You have then an affection for her? You are 
frightened at the thought that she will suffer 
the just punishment of her wickedness ? ” 

“Oh! no, no, madame! Mercy, mercy for 
myself.” 

“Stop there!” shouted Madame de Bruin- 
steen, “you have uttered your last word at 
Orsdael. Go; will you leave or not?” 

And as Martha remained on her knees weep- 
ing, she caught her by the arm and thrust her 
violently from her, giving her a blow so severe 
that poor Martha hurt herself against the wall, 
and for a moment was stunned. 

The door of the chamber was opened, and a 
cruel invective recalled the widow to the con- 
sciousness of her position. 

“Well!” cried the Countess, “you wish that 
I should absolutely throw you out the door?” 

Martha staggered towards the door and left 
the house, bruised, annihilated, and almost with- 
out an idea. The scene poor Helen would have 
to undergo came before her mind, at which she 
was so overcome that she became almost para- 
lyzed. Hearing her name called, she raised her 
head and uttered a cry of joy. She extended 
her hands to the steward, who ran towards her 
with signs of impatience and anger. 


50 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“I know what lias happened: Catherine has 
told me all. But what did the Countess say? 
You weep ! Has she abused you?” 

“ Cruelly abused me; she has driven me from 
the house, I cannot go up stairs for my lug- 
gage.” 

‘‘She is foolish, Martha. Is it your fault if 
this rascal Frederick sees fit to suddenly appear. 
Fet us go — ignore the injustice of the Countess, 
and return to your room.” 

‘ ‘ I dare not, ^ ’ she said with fear. ‘ ‘ She would 
have me thrown from the door by the servants.” 

Matthew dragged her by the hands, saying 
with great agitation: 

“Send you from the door? Well; we will see 
if she dare lay her hand on you! She took this 
pretext to send you away. It is not against you, 
but she is taking her revenge on me. She 
knows in ill-treating you she wounds me: but 
we will see. Do not tremble so. Were she a 
thousand tiipes more indignant, she will unbend 
and become gentle as a lamb. Not only will I 
tell her she must respect you, but at the same 
time I will tell her that I have chosen you for 
my wife, and that you will soon become my 
bride.” 

“Matthew, Matthew,” cried the widow, “do 
not do that. Her fury will know no limit.” 

“I know it, but should she become foolish 
or angry, I posess the means to calm her. Re- 
main on the staircase; I will see her. Have no 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 51 

fear: should I wish it, she will ask your pardon 
for her brutality.” 

'‘No, no, do not humiliate her; use gentle 
means; only prove to her my innocence. If she 
will only forgive my momentary neglect.” 

“It is my affair, Martha; I shall have my re- 
venge. Remain here and have courage; you 
will not leave Orsdael.” 

The steward entered and closed the door. 
Martha heard his angry voice, and scarcely had 
he said a few words, when the sharp voice of the 
Cquntess mingled with his threats. Sometimes 
a low sound, sometimes angry threatenings, 
sometimes even the boards creaked under the 
shock of a kick. 

Martha was all in a tremble on the stairway, 
her eyes fixed on the door, through which she 
could hear the angry voices, on one of which 
depended her own and her child’s happiness. 
With what attention she listened, but not a 
word could she understand; the noise of the 
voices, deadened by the heavy door, came to her 
in an indistinct, confused manner. 

The altercation lasted a long time before either 
Madame de Bruinsteen or Matthew seemed to 
lose ground. Finally, however, the voice of 
the steward seemed to predominate; without 
doubt the obstinacy of the Countess had put 
him in a fury; for now he talked so loud that 
Martha could distinguish some of his threats. 
The words “false mother,” “stolen inher- 


52 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


itance,” came to her ear and made her shudder. 
Her enemies spoke of the secret, for the knowl- 
edge of which she would undergo bitter humili- 
ations, cruel suffering! Trembling so that she 
could scarcely stand, she steadied herself against 
the wall and crawled near the door. Her heart 
beat furiously, and she almost gave way under 
the agony. The voice of the steward kept the 
same tone, but the countess spoke at the same 
time, and only a confusion of sounds, without 
any sense, came to Martha. 

She could understand however that they spqke 
of Helen, of the old count, and his inheritance. 
Trembling with impatience and hope, she fixed 
her head against the door, but was disappointed, 
as the voices grew calm and low . . . 

Suddenly, as if the countess had opened a 
new wound, the steward answered with redoub- 
led fury. Martha bent her head and placed her 
ear to the keyhole. Here she could understand 
all that Matthew said. 

“Ah, ah!” he sneered, “you would send me 
away also. Indeed, I have known you for some 
time, madame, and have taken precautions long 
since. You have been foolish enough to give 
me some of your handwriting. This is a sword 
over your head. You will obey me — you will 
obey me I say ... or ruin, misery, perhaps 
prison, awaits you. I was your accomplice, 
your instrument, but to avenge myself . . . ” 

Martha concentrated all her will power to 


the stolen child. 


53 


hear them; she did not breathe: the secret for 
which she would give her life would probably 
be revealed to her. But hearing a sound, she 
rose and recoiled, uttering a stifled cry. The 
old cook came down the stairway and ap- 
proached her smiling. Marion had seen her 
with her ear at the keyhole. 

“What are you doing, Martha? Why do you 
listen in so vexed a manner?’’ she asked in a 
low voice. “ You are pale; are they talking of 
you ?’ ’ 

“Yes, yes, of me,’’ said the widow. 

“ If my presence does not worry you, Martha, 
you will tell me in a few moments what you 
have heard, will you not?’’ 

The widow put her ear to the key-hole again, 
but the quarrel had quieted down ; their voices 
sounded indistinct and low as in an ordinary 
conversation. After listening for some little 
time without hearing anything, Martha sighed 
sadly and left the door. Her eyes were filled 
with tears, but she overcame her feelings, as the 
cook was still on the stairway. 

“Well,” said Marion, “ what are they saying 
about you? Are you to be dismissed, or will 
you remain ?” 

“lam dismissed,” cried Martha, trembling 
with emotion, and hardly knowing what the 
cook had asked her. 

“Dismissed,” she repeated, “for good and 
all? Is there no hope? What a great misfor- 


54 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


tune, Martha ! I am truly sorry for you. Helen 
told me the whole affair, and you are not at all 
to blame.” 

‘ ‘ Helen ?’ ’ said Martha. ‘ ‘ How is she ? Very 
much grieved, is she not?” 

“The poor idiot! Had one the heart of a 
stone, she would demand their pity.” 

“ Alas 1 she fears bad treatment.” 

“No, no, another would fear it — but an idiot! 
Do you believe she thinks only of herself? All 
her cry is, ‘ Martha, Martha !’ and nothing ex- 
cites her so much as the fear that you may suffer 
for her imprudence. It is singular : she has 
never shown you much affection. I have always 
believed that she hated you, and now, when at 
any moment she may lose you, she shows great 
love for you. Her brain is troubled, she knows 
not what she says or does.” 

They opened the room door, and the steward 
appeared in the corridor; he was red, and his 
eyes yet flamed with anger. Marion’s presence 
appeared to annoy him; he made an imperious 
gesture for her to leave, but changing his mind, 
turned to her, taking from her hand the keys 
which she still held, then said to the governess: 

“Follow me, Martha.” 

The widow obeyed. He led her to his own 
room, offered her a chair near the table, and 
said to her: 

“You see these keys, Martha. The affair is 
settled, but it has cost much trouble. I have 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


55 


used the strongest means in order to conquer. 
You may remain at Orsdael, and have nothing 
to fear.’^ 

“ She has forgiven me?” cried the governess. 

“ Forgiven ! A woman like the Countess 
never forgives.” 

“ But I can, nevertheless, remain?” 

“That was not so difficult. Madame de Briiin- 
steen consented to that without much opposi- 
tion ; but when I told her you were to become 
my wife, I thought she would have an apoplec- 
tic fit from temper. . . That astonishes yon, 
Martha? I know what you are thinking — that 
she is jealous, because I ignore her affections, for 
another. It is not that; she hates me in an in- 
describable manner, but she needs and fears me. 
If I wished, I could do her much harm, even 
ruin her completely. That is why she wishes 
to hold me under subjection: but it is over — I 
am weary of that existence. ’ ’ 

“What terrible secrets are there then between 
you and the Countess?” murmured Martha with 
unfeigned terror. “Madame has perhaps com- 
mitted an ill deed, and you know it?” 

“Ask me nothing of that,” replied Matthew, 
“the day of our marriage you will know all. 
Until then you cannot tear from me a single 
word. You recognize yourself that silence is 
praiseworthy. Let us talk now of serious mat- 
ters. The scene that h'.is taxen place between 
the Countess and me will not allow us to wait 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


56 

long. Our wedding must be hastened as quickly 
as possible. Madame de Bruinsteen will find 
, means in her machinations to break it off. You 
will then write this evening to Brussels for the 
necessary papers, and if you are as anxious as I, 
we will be married in six weeks.” 

The widow seemed not to be listening, and 
her eyes were fixed with peculiar intensity tow- 
ards the farther end of the room. There was a 
mahogany writing table between the velvet arm- 
chair and some other pretty furniture. There 
were also some paintings in gilt frames, and a 
large glass. But the object on which Martha’s 
eyes were fixed was a chest bound with iron, 
which was at the foot of the desk. 

“You are distracted, Martha,” remarked the 
steward. “Tell me, my dear, will you write 
this evening for the necessary papers? Will 
you do it if possible, so that we will be married 
in a short time.” 

“Yes, yes, this evening,” repeated Martha, 
whose attention was irresistibly drawn to the 
iron-bound chest. 

“You are looking at my furniture? Ah! 
Martha, it will not be necessary for you to buy 
much for our house. All that you see here be- 
longs to me. A beautiful desk, magnificent 
arm-chairs, are they not?” 

Martha tried to smile, and said with forced 
gaiety : 

“I believe that chest the most valuable piece 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 57 

of furniture. It is there without doubt you keep 
all your savings.” 

“ Yes; and other papers.” 

‘ ‘ Papers ? Valuable papers ? ’ ’ 

“With what a strange air you ask that,” said 
Matthew, hesitating. “You understand; it is in 
such a chest that one locks what he wishes to 
keep. ’ ’ 

“Indeed, Mr. Matthew, there is nothing that 
excites a woman’s curiosity more than an iron- 
bound chest, one which seems to contain mys- 
terious things. In several weeks I will be your 
bride. Well, now be good, and tell me every- 
thing that is in the chest.” 

“Go! go! foolish one, you are joking. What 
is there ? A little money, titles for public deeds; 
and you may well imagine I am not stupid 
enough to treasure up these things without gain- 
ing any benefit from them. When we return 
from church husband and wife I will give you 
the keys of the chest and closets. Until then, 
my dear, you must overcome your curiosity, for 
all is well locked. Let us go, and forget these 
whims; time is too precious to lose. Listen, 
Martha; once married, we can remain at the 
castle, or if you prefer to have a house of your 
own, you can have your choice. There is much 
to be gained here; one can live without much 
expense, and quietly let their fortune accumu- 
late.” 


58 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“I prefer to remain at Orsdael,” said Martha, 
who was thinking of her daughter. 

“That is a sensible decision,” replied the 
steward, “inasmuch as you will be neither ser- 
vant nor governess, and will have no one to 
serve.” 

“And the young girl, who will take care of 
her ? ” 

“They have arranged that, Martha. In a 
few days she will be far away from the castle, 
and I have reason to think she will never re- 
turn.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Martha, seized 
with a sudden anxiety. 

“ It is decided; the young lady goes to a con- 
vent.” 

“ To a convent?” 

“This seems to trouble you; you think, per- 
haps, when Helen leaves, the Countess will send 
you away also. Your services will no longer be 
of use to her.” 

“Yes, Matthew, indeed this news makes me 
tremble.” 

“You are wrong. This decision was made at 
my request, to put an end to this constant 
quarreling. ’ ^ 

“But into what convent will she go?” 

“ I do not know yet. The Countess is looking 
for one.” 

“Do they wish to make a religious of Helen? 
It is impossible — an idiot!” 


THE STOEEN CHILD. 


59 


“No; she will be at boarding-school until 
they decide what to do with her ... I hear 
the Countess scolding; she will vent her rage on 
the servants. I will try to calm her, very 
gently; at present she will consent to everything. 
As soon as I learn the news I will tell you. Go 
to your room, Martha, and rest a few moments.” 

“Oh ! I cannot,” answered the governess. 

“Why? what have you to fear now?” 

“The Countess; she will abuse me.” 

“No, no; I have looked out for that. She 
promised not to speak of what had passed. If 
she should say a few disagreeable words, act as 
if you had not heard ; but do not be frightened, 
she will not trouble you.” 

“She is coming now. Alas ! I tremble at the 
thought of seeing her.” 

“What is she coming for?” 

“To scold and punish the young girl.” 

“Indeed — but what is that to you? Tet her 
inflict what punishment she wishes on the idiot; 
she deserves it, for telling such falsehoods. If I 
had time I would also like to make her feel she 
could not ridicule us without being punished for 
it.” 

“But, Matthew, can you not understand? I 
will be near her, and the Countess, in her anger, 
will be as furious with me as with her. I am 
worn out with these odious scenes ; I am tired 
of them, and if they are to continue, I would 
rather leave Orsdael.” 


6o 


THK STOLEN CHILD. 


“Ah !” said Matthew, “what does this mean? 
I cannot put a stop to Madame de Bruinsteen’s 
seeing her daughter.” 

Martha took his hands, and said with extreme 
sweetness, and in a caressing voice : 

“Matthew, dear Matthew, the Countess will 
give you anything. Give me a new proof of 
your affection. Make her promise not to see 
Helen for two or three days at least. Thus I 
will avoid the danger of being maltreated or 
abused by her. Matthew, be good ; lift this 
burden from my mind, I pray you !” 

The steward, touched by her expression and 
her accent, lifted his head for a moment, and 
said smilingly : 

“Enchantress that you are ! You can do ex- 
actly what you wish with me. Go on, calm 
yourself; I will do as you desire.” 

“The Countess will not go near Helen?” 

“Not for three days, Martha.” 

“Oh ! thank you.” 

Matthew rose and left the room ; at the door 
he said to the governess, who followed him : 

“ Rest a little while, Martha ; as soon as you 
feel rested, write and ask for your papers. You 
know which ones you need ; I told you. Do 
not let these troubles worry you. Our marriage 
will make you forget your sorrow. Rest assured 
we will be happy. ’ ’ 

The widow watched him, to make sure he 
would not retrace his steps; as soon as he had 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


6l 


gone down stairs she uttered a suppressed cry, 
and ran to her room. Before reaching the door 
she nuinnured joyously: 

“Helen — Laura, my own dear child, I will 
remain. I will never leave you as long as I 
live.” 


62 


THE STOLEN CHILD, 


CHAPTER IV. 

Miss de Bruinsteen was seated at a table 
copying in a book. Although she gave her 
attention to her work, from time to time she 
turned her head, smiling sadly at her governess, 
who was seated against the wall, her eyes low- 
ered as though in deep thought. A complete 
silence reigned in the room; the oblique rays of 
the sun and the feeble light indicated declining 
day. Martha was sad and restless; she had not 
yet told Helen of their resolution to put her in a 
convent. She feared the news would break her 
heart. Besides, she still hoped, with Matthew’s 
aid, to avert the fatal blow which menaced them 
both. In truth, the steward could not under- 
stand why she wished to prevent the young 
girl’s departure — in fact, had repulsed her at- 
tempt as unreasonable; but there yet remained 
several days of respite, and she still hoped to 
bring Matthew to think as she did, without be- 
traying her motive. Unfortunately the steward 
had unexpectedly left the castle at an early hour 
that morning, in the large carriage, and would 
not return until late that evening. Why had 
not Matthew spoken of this trip ? What was he 
hiding? Reflecting on this, she shuddered and 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


63 

turned pale, for a terrible suspicion had come to 
her mind. The convent ! If it should be a pri- 
vate asylum! Horror! her child to be enclosed 
with mad people and condemned to lifelong im- 
prisonment! However, this thought she re- 
pulsed with horror. Matthew’s words led her 
to believe her apprehensions were without foun- 
dation. Wavering thus between feeble hope and 
terrible anxiety, poor Martha raised her eyes to 
heaven, praying the terrible fate which threat- 
ened her child might be averted. Helen turned 
her head and uttered a cry of compassion; she 
dared not speak, because Martha had begged her 
to do her work in silence. Nevertheless, as 
soon as she had finished she rose, offering her 
writing to her governess, saying: 

“See, dear Martha, I have finished.” 

“It is well done, my dear child,” she said, 
looking hurriedly over the paper. “Already 
you write better than I. Your application ex- 
ceeds my expectations.” 

Sitting down the young girl took the hand of 
her governess, asking in a sweet supplicating 
voice: 

“Martha, you are grieved? Oh! that I had 
not been so disobedient; you are suffering for my 
fault, you who are goodness itself — it is as if a 
knife pierced my heart. Be comforted, Martha; 
It will never happen again. If Frederick ever 
comes near me I will call help and fly away from 
him. I will even use violence to forget every- 
thing.” 


64 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


‘‘No, no, you are mistaken; that is not the 
cause of my sorrow.’’ 

“I dare not ask you the cause, you dislike 
my questioning you. But you grieve me much, 
Martha. I see from your face you are in trouble. 
You are allowed to remain with me, above all, 
my mother has forgiven both of us, you tell me. 
This unexpected happiness should make you 
glad; and yet you are pale and overcome with 
sad thoughts. There, there, my kisses have 
brought a smile to your lips.” 

She embraced her governess and pressed her 
to her heart. Martha patiently submitted to 
her caresses, kissed her twice on the forehead, 
and tried to smile. They remained silent a 
moment, looking affectionately at each other, 
when a light knock at the door startled them. 
Martha hastened to see who came thus to call, 
and returning immediately, said to her: 

‘‘Helen, it is Marion, the cook; your mother 
gave orders she should return immediately with 
you.” 

“ My mother wishes me ?” cried the girl, “O 
my God, what is going to happen.” 

The governess was not less frightened, but 
overcame her fear, and with apparent cheerful- 
ness said : 

‘ ‘ Why do you grow so pale, my poor child ? 
I will be with you. Fear nothing, I will be at 
your side.” 

“Alas! that is not why I tremble, dear Martha; 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


65 

it is because you, without being guilty, must 
suffer. My mother can punish me cruelly, it is 
nothing; but if she attempts to abuse you in my 
presence . . . ” 

“No, no, you are needlessly frightened; but 
let us go, your mother will not wait. Be calm 
and follow me.’’ 

She went down with the young girl and 
opened the door of the large room. A stifled 
sigh escaped her. Seated by the side of the 
Countess was a man clothed in black, whose 
cold and smiling countenance froze the blood in 
her veins. 

“ That will do,” said the Countess “ Teave 
Helen with us; close the door; go up stairs and 
obey my orders. . . . Do you not understand 
me? ” 

The widow left the room, but remained in the 
corridor. Her limbs refused to move from the 
spot where an irrevocable decree would decide 
the fate of her daughter. She feared the 
Countess would surprise her, and quickly 
mounting the stairs, she fell on a chair, resting 
her head in her hands. 

Who was this man dressed in black? Prob- 
ably a physician. Why should he come to 
Orsdael, when no one was ill? Why should he 
remain alone with Helen ? The private asylum! 
Indeed, the widow had known for a long time 
that a single word from a physician sufiiced to 
condemn a person to perpetual seclusion; and 
3 


66 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


once tlie poor victim was enclosed in a living 
tomb, who would dare suggest their release, 
when even the words and gestures of the most 
sane would have the appearance of madness ? 

The widow seemed crushed under the weight 
of these frightful thoughts, until the sound of 
the bell warned her to descend. At the foot of 
the staircase, she saw the stranger enter his 
carriage. When she went ipto the room, the 
Countess said to her in a bright and joyful tone: 

‘ ‘ Martha, conduct Helen to her room ; close 
the doors carefully and return quickly. I have 
something important to tell you.” 

Helen wept and trembled; she seemed much 
frightened and began already to explain to 
Martha the cause of her fear, when the widow 
made her understand by a look that she must 
overcome her grief and reserve her confidence 
until they should be alone. Reaching Helenas 
room, Martha closed the door and asked: 

“Well, my child, what has happened? Speak 
quickly; your mother is waiting.” 

“Alas, alas! I am to go to a convent far from 
here,” sobbed the girl. “To leave Orsdael, to 
fly from my prison, would indeed be a happiness; 
but to be separated from you Martha, — I will die 
without you, I cannot live.” 

“Have courage, Helen,” said Martha, over- 
coming her emotion. “Wherever you are, my 
child, I will be with you, always and every- 
where. What did the stranger say to you ? I 
must know; but hurry, for I hear the bell.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


67 

“The stranger took my hand; fixed his 
twinkling eyes on mine, as if he wished to 
penetrate to the base of my brain. My heart 
beat violently, my mind wandered, a mist swam 
before my eyes.” 

“But what did he ask you ? ” 

“All sorts of strange and incomprehensible 
questions, of what I thought or dreamed, if I 
would like to play with other girls, or if I 
would not like to become a religious ...” 

“And you replied?” 

“I do not know what I stammered. His 
staring deprived me of thought.” 

“He was much astonished at your replies, 
was he not?” 

“No, he shook his head with an air of satis- 
faction, then he went to the table and wrote 
something on a large sheet of paper.” 

“ O my God ! ’ ’ cried Martha, raising her hands 
to heaven. 

Helen looked at her tremblingly; but the 
widow avoided an explanation' by leaving the 
room, saying: 

‘ ‘ Have no fear, my child. There are secrets 
that you will know some day. Now you have 
nothing to fear. I will return in a moment.” 

“Be seated, Martha,” said the Countess, when 
the former entered the room. “I have good 
reason to be angry with you; but I wish to for- 
get all that has passed now, especially as the 
cause of all my grief and anger will leave Ors- 


68 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


dael. At what I have to say you also will re- 
joice; ^ood news for both of us! To-morrow 
Helen will enter a convent; thus you will be 
free from the care of her, and you can walk and 
do as you please each day. . . Why, you do not 
seem satisfied? I thought I was giving you 
pleasure. ’ ’ 

Martha felt that she should make a pretense 
of delight. She tried to smile in stammering 
thanks; but in spite of her efforts one could 
read distress in her face. 

“I understand,” said the Countess, “you fear 
you will lose your place after her departure? 
You are wrong, Martha ; I have told Matthew 
that you can remain at Orsdael until your mar- 
riage, or indeed afterwards, if you desire it. 
Once get Helen out of my sight, in a place of 
safety, and I will no longer be either grieved or 
angry. You may keep me company, and I will 
do everything to make your stay agreeable. My 
words no doubt astonish you. I am not in the 
habit of being so gracious. But to-morrow I 
will have the happiness for which I have sighed 
so many years — delivery from hard slavery. The 
idiot was a source of grief, and a weight as heavy 
as that carried by a galley-slave. I am delivered 
of these fetters, and breathe freely for the first 
time. Joy renders me good and amiable.” 

Martha by this time had gained command 
over herself. Whilst the Countess talked, she 
smilingly murmured some words of assent, which 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 69 

gave her courage to learn that which she wanted 
to know. 

“You are too good, madame, to allow me to 
remain at Orsdael. Will you also grant me an- 
other favor ? I am no longer to have charge of 
Helen? Ah ! how thankful that you no longer 
give me this difficult charge ! But if Helen can- 
not remain at the convent, and if she should re- 
turn ?’ ’ 

“No, no ; she will not return !” cried the 
Countess. “She goes to a place from which one 
never returns. ’ ’ 

“Oh! that is nothing; Mr. Bergmans will 
know where she is, and find means for her es- 
cape. ’ ’ 

“But Frederick does not know it; no one 
knows it but the steward and myself, where she 
will be; the windows are barred with iron, so 
that even a cat could not escape. Ah, ah, why 
do you try to hide that you are as delighted as 
I? Listen; I wish to tell you in confidence, but 
you must speak of it to no one, for every one 
believes that Helen is entering a convent to be- 
come a religieuse. In this way they will speak 
little of her disappearance.” 

“What ! is she not, then, going to a con- 
vent?” 

“Yes, it is in fact a convent, for it is gov- 
erned by religious.” 

Madame de Bruinsteen leaned over and whis- 
pered in the widow’s ear: 


70 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


You saw the stranger, did you not?” 

“Yes.” 

“ He is a gentleman who came to examine my 
daughter’ s mind. Everything passed off beauti- 
fully. Helen seemed more stupid and idiotic 
than ever. There, he has signed a paper prov- 
ing that her brain is affected, and . . , you 
understand?” 

“What? what, madame? I do not under- 
stand,” stammered Martha, almost swooning. 

“It is easy to understand; Helen goes into a 
private asylum.” 

A piercing shriek escaped the poor widow; 
but she soon calmed herself, and burst out 
laughing. 

“That cry?” murmured the stupefied Count- 
ess. 

“It is joy, madame, joy!” cried Martha. 
“Now I can marry, now you will be happy and 
free from grief. Ah! now I will feel easy, not 
so much for myself as for you, my good and 
generous mistress.” 

Deceived by the flattering words, the Countess 
cried joyfully: 

“I believe it. Since I am sure of my deliv- 
erance my heart is relieved of an enormous 
weight. I was indeed a martyr to have the care 
during so many years of an idiot, to whom na- 
ture has given a wretched disposition, and who 
would live but to disgrace my name and render 
my life wretched.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


71 


“Yes, madame, a cruel martyrdom for a mo- 
ther — obliged, after so much suffering, to see her 
only child shut up in an asylum.” 

‘ ‘ What would you do, Martha ? There is no 
other way.” 

“Will she be far away, madame?” 

“Oh, yes; she will be far enough.” 

“ The farther the better for you and . . . and 
for me. In this way there is less danger of Mr. 
Bergmans’ discovering her retreat. No doubt 
she will be sent out of the country?” 

“Do not ask me that,” replied the Countess, 
evidently dissatisfied by her curiosity. “Mat- 
thew went this morning to speak to the direc- 
tress of the Convent, and to tell her of Helen’s 
coming. If he returns before night you can 
ask him what you want to know. He will be 
able to tell you. It is good that I have made 
him promise faithfully to be silent as to the 
place where Helen will be placed to-morrow.” 

“Ah! to-morrow, — so soon! ” 

“To-morrow at ten precisely, he will come in 
a carriage for her. ’ ’ 

“Will we be long away, madame? You 
understand it will be necessary for me to have 
some clothes, at least a change of linen, with 
me. ’ ’ 

“You will remain here with me, Martha.” 

“And what woman will accompany your 
daughter?” 

“None: Matthew alone. All is decided and 


72 


THE STOEEN CHILD. 


arranged. Besides, it is not far, for Matthew 
will return the next morning. The sun has al- 
ready disappeared behind the woods; Martha, 
return to your room and gather together Helen’s 
linen and clothes. I will send you immediately 
several trunks and band-boxes. Take this 
evening to pack, so as not to be hurried to-mor- 
row morning. Be discreet, repeat nothing that 
you have heard . . . and if the idiot cries, let 
her cry, and act as if you had not heard her. 
It is the last time she will torment you.” 

Martha left the room with a smile and ^^rords 
of thanks on her lips; but as soon as she was 
sure she was alone, the tears poured from her 
eyes and she was obliged to sit on the stairs, for 
her limbs trembled so she could not move. At 
the first floor she stopped in order to gather her 
thoughts, to give her courage to warn her daugh- 
ter of the grief of separation and to console her 
by a hope. 

An implacable fate had followed her since she 
set foot in Orsdael. She had dissembled, lied, 
feigned always, as well with her daughter as 
with her employers. 

She remained for some time immovable, ab- 
sorbed in deep thought. Then suddenly she 
raised her head. In her black eyes burned a 
pride and a kind of wicked courage, as if she 
would defy her invisible enemies. Her features 
dilated suddenly, and her expression became 
calm and patient. When she turned her steps 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


73 


towards Helen’s room, a sweet serenity bright- 
ened her face, and she said to the disconsolate 
girl, who fell on her neck weeping bitterly: 

“Let us go, Helen, my dear child; do not 
weep. Your grief is reasonable, but what you 
fear will never happen!” 

“Oh! God be praised!” cried the young girl, 
with a feverish laugh. “ I have reason to hope 
in your marvelous power. You can persuade 
my mother. I will not go to a convent? I can 
remain with you. Oh! thanks, good angel that 
you are.” 

“Be seated, Helen,” said the widow, handing 
her a chair, “and try to listen calmly to me. 
The day is ending, and I have yet work to do, 
and not much time to talk with you. You will 
certainly go to a convent.” 

“Oh ! Martha, you see how I tremble !” 

“You are wrong. Listen to what I say to 
you. To-morrow at ten o’clock a carriage will 
come for you . . . Why are you so restless ? 
There is not the slightest cause. Is life so 
pleasant and agreeable in this sombre cage?” 

“With you, Martha, this dark room is for me 
a paradise on earth.” 

“You will assuredly be better in a convent.” 

“Ah ! you will come with me; yes, yes — then 
I am content. If I could only leave this place 
now, where I have suffered so much!” 

“That is to say, my child, I will perhaps not 
leave here in the same carriage with you, and 


74 


THE STOEEN CHILD. 


perhaps you will not see me during the trip. 
You grow pale: try to overcome this useless 
fright.” 

“For the love of God, do not deceive me, 
Martha !” 

“When have I deceived you?” 

“Never, never! Forgive this doubt. My 
heart is oppressed, and I can scarcely breathe. 
All my limbs tremble ; something tells me that 
I am going to lose you forever. Never to see 
)^ou again, Martha? I would prefer death.” 

The widow, although her heart bled cruelly, 
softened her voice, and tried to calm the young 
girl, assuring her she would never leave her, and 
that she would always be at her side, to love and 
protect her. Then, thinking she had succeeded, 
she added : 

“Well, Helen; since this trip can be taken 
without fear, I hope yet to be able to prevent it. 
The steward has been away since morning. He 
will return late this evening. I will watch for 
him. Through him I can perhaps make your 
mother change her mind. If this last attempt 
fail me, show that you have courage, my child, 
and do not increase my difficulties by your 
weakness. We will only be separated a short 
time, after which you will find me more devoted 
and powerful than ever before. It is possible, 
Helen, that your enemies hope to make your life 
miserable in the convent ; but understand that I 
have love and strength, to triumph over their 
wickedness.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


75 


Martha succeeded at last in feigning an abso- 
lute confidence, to inspire her child with the 
necessary strength. Helen promised to take the 
trip without complaint, assured with the idea 
that her protectress would be present at her de- 
parture to encourage and help her. 

It was time for the young girl to retire and 
try to take some repose, after the terrible blow 
her heart had received that day. The consoling 
words of her governess had made her hope that 
her life would be less bitter at the convent than 
at Orsdael. 

The widow left after tenderly embracing her; 
scarcely had Martha closed the door than the 
whole expression of her face changed. Signs 
of fear reappeared around her lips, her eyes 
gazed into vacancy in an aimless manner, her 
own thoughts terrified her — nevertheless this 
same thought only an instant before had given 
her the courage to defy her enemies. She 
seemed to hesitate and to recoil at the execution 
of it; although the deliverance of her child 
would be perhaps the price of her audacity. In 
the twilight everything seemed to be shadowed 
in grey . . . 

Suddenly she uttered a strange cry; her reso- 
lution was taken. 

“ I am a mother; God will forgive me.” 

She ran with feverish haste towards the stew- 
ard’s room, and fell against the door, causing it to 
open. She jumped towards the iron-bound 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


76 

chest, looked on all sides for the lock, shook it 
violently, then trembling and out of breath, 
she was in despair when she found it could 
only be opened by violence. In this chest there 
was a certificate, for which Martha would have 
given her life’s blood. The deliverance of her 
child, her right as mother, her happiness, was 
kept from her trembling hands only by the thin 
partitions of this chest; and she must leave it 
there, renounce all hope of success, and sink 
under the weight of her inability! But she per- 
severed, ran to the chimney, picked up the 
tongs; throwing herself on her knees before the 
chest, wrenched the instrument between the lid 
and the lock, leaned on the tongs with such 
force as to make them bend like a piece of lead. 
Great drops of perspiration were rolling down 
her face; she breathed heavily, her heart was 
beating fiercely. “I can do nothing, nothing 
at all.” 

Finally the tongs broke in her last effort, and 
Martha felt with an inexpressible terror that 
there was blood on her hands. 

She picked up the broken pieces, and ran to 
her room, where she fell insensible on a chair. 

She regained consciousness after some little 
time. To be sure, she was discouraged; but as 
soon as her weakness left her and her brain was 
cleared, she reflected and wondered if in this ex- 
treme necessity, there was not some way for her 
to contrive to battle against her fate. 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


77 


Should she wake her child, dress her quickly, 
and fly with her in the darkness? Would they 
not follow and overtake them ? They would 
throw them in prison . . . and what would be 
the fate of poor Laura ? Should she go to the 
Countess, tell her name, and claim her right as 
mother of the girl ? But she could not prove 
this right; her only proof was in the possession 
of her enemies, and at the least suspicion they 
would destroy forever this proof. Should she 
fly alone from the castle ? Should she hunt for 
hours in the woods to beg Frederick’s help? 
Who would show her the way? And after all, 
what could the young man do ? Her unsuccess- 
ful meditations made her sigh deeply; the dread- 
ful conviction that the doors of an asylum were 
to close on her child, broke her heart; she felt 
chilled. After remaining immovable for some 
time, a sudden and mysterious inspiration struck 
her; she held her head up with a joyous expres- 
sion on her face. 

“Yes,” she cried, “what I mean, perhaps, 
would be a crime under other circumstances, but 
I cannot choose; I must at any price deliver my 
child!” 


78 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was quite eleven o’clock when the stew- 
ard’s carriage drove furiously to the castle door. 
The horses had been urged on, and were worn 
out. Matthew jumped quickly down and rang 
the bell. The door was opened immediately. 

“ I see a light in Madame’ s window ; has she 
not retired ? 

“No, sir ; she is awaiting you.” 

Grumbling in a loud tone, he opened the 
drawing-room door, and instead of replying to 
her pleasant salutations, he sighed and fell on a 
chair. 

“ Heavens ! what is the matter with you, my 
good Matthew?” cried the Countess. “Per- 
spiration is rolling down your face, and you are 
so pale !” 

“Let me breathe, let me recover from the 
terrible fright I have had.” 

“Speak, I beg you. What has happened? 
You make me tremble, Matthew.” 

“ It is enough to make me tremble, Madame ; 
about a mile from here I was almost murdered.” 

“ Murdered ! what are you talking about?” 

“ To-morrow I will tell you all about it ; how- 
ever, I see you will not give me a moment’s 


THE STOEEN CHILD. 


79 


peace until I tell you all. Well, to make it 
short, for I am exhausted, this is what happened: 
When we arrived at the village in which 
Frederick Bergmans lives, the coachman sug- 
gested crossing the Munster woods to shorten 
our journey. I refused, for it was quite dark, 
and I tell you frankly, I do not like to go on 
lonely or unfrequented roads at night. But, as 
it was quite late, and I was anxious to get to 
bed, I let the coachman do as he wished, and 
we took the short cut. All went well for about 
half an hour, when we were obliged to go 
through a valley which was bordered on both 
sides by thick woods. I did not feel at my 
ease, for it was black as ink. I could no longer 
see either coachman or horses, and I began to 
think of a crime which was committed some 
years ago in that place, when suddenly I heard 
a shrill whistle behind me. I cried to the 
coachman to whip up the horses ; but the same 
whistle sounded on all sides, back of us and in 
front of us. I was more dead than alive. I 
imagined myself surrounded by a band of assas- 
sins. The coachman was probably more scared 
than I ; perhaps the horses themselves were 
conscious of their danger, for they flew like the 
wind along the road. I was clapping my hands 
at our deliverance, when three or four men 
jumped from the woods and cried to us to stop ; 
but a few lashes of the whip made the horses 
brace up again. One of the bandits fired, and 


8o 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


the ball passed so close to my head that my ears 
still tingle with it. From that moment the 
horses galloped without stopping until they 
reached the door of the castle. They are good 
beasts, and the coachman is a clever fellow. 
Why it is we were not killed, I do not know at 
all. Oh ! but it is over; I must rest now, and I 
beg you will allow me to retire. ’ ’ 

The Countess opened a closet, and took out a 
bottle and a glass. 

“My poor Matthew,” she said, taking his 
hand ; ‘ ‘ your fright must have been great. 
Drink a glass of wine, that will set you all right. 
Now you are safe in the house, all danger is 
over. I will leave you, in spite of my anxiety 
to know if you have accomplished the object of 
your journey; but you are too restless to retire, 
you should give your mind time to rest. Take 
a glass of wine, as I told you; that will restore 
you, my good friend.” 

The steward looked with astonishment at the 
Countess ; there was something sweet and ca- 
ressing both in her voice and look. He knew 
not what to think, and felt that under this ex- 
cessive amiability she was hiding something. 
He supposed the Countess was overcome by his 
threats of the evening before, and that she only 
flattered him to prevent his realizing it in a 
moment of anger. 

“Well, Matthew,” said Madame de Bruin- 
steen, “forget your adventure, and have the 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


8l 


goodness to give me some idea of the result of 
your trip. Did you speak with the matron of 
the asylum ?’ ’ 

“ I was with her almost an hour.” 

“ Will she take Helen without any difficulty?” 

“Without the least trouble. The testimony 
of the physician and your request is all that they 
require.” 

“Then we will be rid of this fool. You are 
sure, Matthew, they will watch her carefully, 
and will allow no one to see her?” 

“I have explained to the matron there is a 
young man interested in her fortune, and that 
this bold impostor will attempt to communicate 
with her, either by letters or a third party, en- 
couraging her to escape. ’ ’ 

“They have satisfied me on all points. Since 
she does not require fresh air, they will give her 
a strict keeper, who will remain always with 
her, even sleep in the same room.” 

“And she will never leave this asylum.” 

“ Never, unless by your request.” 

“Then she will remain a long while!” said 
the Countess, rubbing her hands. “You may 
be sure she will never see either the country or 
the blue .sky again. It is well done ; now that 
she is declared insane, and is shut up forever, no 
one need worry about her. The secret of her 
birth will be buried in the asylum. I become 
manager of her fortune; and if she should die, 
naturally, as her mother, I inherit her property.” 


82 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“Yes, yes,” grumbled the steward, “you will 
be rich, whilst I, who sacrificed all my life to 
your interest, what will I have as recompense ? 
— a little money that I have gathered penny by 
penny.” 

“A little money!” said Madame de Bruinsteen, 
sneering incredulously. “Do you think I do 
not know how many deeds and loans of the 
estate are sealed in your strong box? There, 
there, my good Matthew, I do not want any of 
your treasures. Now that we have attained the 
object of our lives, I wish to show my thanks 
by a handsome present. The mill at Disch is a 
beautiful estate, is it not?” 

“The mill?” repeated the steward “well?” 

“It is a large farm, of fifteen acres of rich 
land.” 

“Yes, madame. What do you wish with it? ” 

“I have decided to make you a present of the 
mill.” 

The steward uttered a cry of joyful surprise, 
and taking her hand, said: 

“•Ah! madame, such generosity! Now I re- 
gret nothing I have done for you. You will 
give me the mill with the farm, irrevocably? ” 

“That is to say,” replied the Countess, “that 
you will have a life estate, and you will enjoy 
the income.” 

“I should think so,” murmured the steward, 
much disappointed. 

“ But you are unjust, Matthew,” said Madame 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


83 

de Bruinsteen. “I do all that I can, and yet 
you do not seem satisfied. As long as Helen 
lives, what she has will belong to me, but I can- 
not dispose of it at my fancy. If she dies, the 
mill will be yours. Be content with the income 
at present. It is a handsome sum annually.” 

“Yes, but at any time you can take it back. 
I do not know how you will feel towards me 
next year; and if, perhaps, you should marry?” 

“No, no! do not fear that.” 

“You desire, madame, that I should appreciate 
your present, and that I should look upon it as 
a recompense for all I have given up? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“Well, give it to me in your own handwrit- 
ing.” 

“My handwriting?” said the Countess. 
“Write what?” 

“ It is easy to understand, madame; the settle- 
ment of a sum of money equal to the value of 
the mill and farm. Then indeed I will thank 
you.” 

“But,” said the Countess, scarcely concealing 
her anger, “should it happen that I should not 
inherit from Helen, I would none the less be 
your debtor. You have me already in your 
power from my first writing. I will not place 
myself there a second time.” 

Matthew rose as if to leave the room, and re- 
plied with a bitter smile: 

“I understand, madame, your strange amia- 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


84 

bility; your flattering words make me see that 
you still wish to deceive me. What may be your 
intention, is a mystery; but believe me, you are 
playing a dangerous game. The idiot goes to- 
morrow; but for all that, everything is not over. 
You know even were Helen shut up for several 
years, a word from me would suffice to release 
her.” 

“But dear Matthew, you are mistaken. I 
have no mysterious intention; my sole desire is 
to recompense you for your devotion. Do not 
distrust me, I beg you: you will have the mill — 
if not now, later. We will speak more at length 
on this subject, when you return from the 
convent, and be assured you will be satisfied. 
Could I give you again my signature? Rest 
now, my friend; you will have to leave early in 
the morning. Take this lamp. Good night. 
Sleep well, Matthew; you will be astonished at 
my generosity.” 

The steward left the room grumbling, he 
slowly ascended the stairway, reflecting on the 
amiability of the Countess and her cunning in 
offering him a gift which she could take back 
the next day. What clever scheme was she 
hiding? Madame de Bruinsteen wished to set a 
trap under his feet. Perhaps she was seeking 
some means to prevent his marriage with the 
governess. How did the Countess know that he 
had the deeds of the estate? And who had told 
her these papers were in his strong box? He 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


85 

thus reached his room, thinking and full of sus- 
picion. When he went to put the key in the 
lock, the door opened. That surprised him 
and he stood still, perhaps he had forgotten to 
close the door. If any one had been in his room 
during his absence he would soon see. Hearing 
a sound he started suddenly and turned his head. 
“Ah! it is you, Martha? Why are you not in 
bed ? It is almost midnight. Did you want to 
see me before retiring. I appreciate the atten- 
tion, my dear.” 

But the widow placed her finger on her lips 
indicating silence, and whilst he looked at her 
she took his arm and led him without a word 
into the room, closed the door, gave him a chair 
and seated herself near the table. 

“What is the meaning of this silence and air 
of mystery? You make me tremble.” 

“Speak low, so that no one can hear us,” 
said Martha in a stifled voice. “A great dan- 
ger is hanging over your head. Your enemies 
have laid a snare for you, and they will triumph 
over your loss . . . Answer me, Matthew, and 
be not surprised at my questions. Is it true that 
you once committed an act that could, at the 
slightest indiscretion, deliver you up to justice?” 

The steward murmured some confused words, 
as if he had not understood her question. 

“God grant they have deceived me! Oh! 
Matthew, I learned terrible things to-day; after 
dinner I thought of the terrible situation in 


86 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


which I was placed by this unexpected revela- 
tion. I asked myself if I could become the wife 
of a man whom they accused of a crime.” 

“What! what do you say?” cried the steward 
growing pale. ‘‘A crime? Is it I of whom you 
speak ? ’ ’ 

^‘Be quiet, let me finish. Be calm, Matthew, 
and listen to me, the happiness of our lives de- 
pends upon your presence of mind. . . . After 
mature reflection I remembered your love for 
me, and I thought that without doubt you were 
the victim of some cowardly person who wished 
to betray you.” 

“I do not understand you,” stammered the 
steward. 

“No wonder you do not understand. I will 
speak more plainly; but give me your word of 
honor in advance to overcome your indignation 
and not to leave this room without my permis- 
sion. If you cannot control yourself you will 
indeed be lost.” 

“Martha, I will be cool.” 

“And speak low?” 

“Very low.” 

“If I take these precautions, Matthew, it is 
only to protect you from a great danger. I can, 
of course, never become your wife; but you have 
given evidence of your love for me, and I wish 
at least to show that I am grateful. ’ ’ 

“Not become my wife? Ah, Martha, they 
have blackened me in your eyes.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


87 

“I believe it; however the sincerity of your 
reply will show me. I implore you, Matthew, 
for your own happiness, do not hide from me 
the truth.” 

“But speak plainly; what do you wish to 
know? ” 

Drawing nearer to him, she asked in a low 
Voice: 

“Matthew, is Helen really the daughter of 
Madame de Bruinsteen?” 

At this question Matthew was struck dumb, 
nevertheless after a short silence he replied, 
trying to smile: 

‘ ‘ I believe it at least. Otherwise whose daugh- 
ter is she ? ’ ’ 

“That is begging the question, sir,” said 
Martha in a tone of sad reproach. “I ask you 
something which since midday I have known as 
well as you, and I try to obtain the consoling 
conviction that they have deceived me at least 
as far as you are concerned; but if you think it 
proper to pretend with me, it is impossible to 
protect you, and I must leave you to the terrible 
fate which threatens you. Think no more of 
our marriage. Alas! how could I dare bear a 
name that could be disgraced to-day or to-mor- 
row. ” 

“Heavens! What do you say . . . ?” stam- 
mered the steward, frightened by her words, but 
recoiling before the secret she wished to learn 
from him. “Martha, I have promised to con- 


88 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


fide to you certain secrets when we are married. 
Why do you not wait until then to question me ? ’ ’ 

“Because that moment will never come, if I 
do not learn from your mouth the entire truth.” 

“Tell me of what do they accuse me? I will 
see if I am permitted to tell.” 

The governess appeared offended at his oppo- 
sition and remained silent for several minutes. ’ 
Then she said as if she had taken a sudden 
resolution: 

“Helen is not the daughter of Madame de 
Bruinsteen, she is the daughter of an officer of 
hussars, and was nursed by the wife of a peasant 
at Bttenbeck near Brussels . . . ” 

“Heavens! who told you that?” 

“You may know, if you in your turn show 
some confidence. Well; is Helen the daughter 
of Madame de Bruinsteen. Yes or no?” 

“Well, no,” sighed Matthew, trembling, as 
if this avowal had terrified him. 

Martha breathed a sigh of relief. For although 
she had not doubted that the young girl was her 
own daughter, the confirmation of her hope filled 
her with unspeakable joy. But as she saw the 
steward looked at her with suspicion, she said in 
a calm voice: 

“Alas! this proof of your sincerity renders me 
truly happy, Matthew; it gives me hope you 
were unjustly accused. They pretended that 
you raised this child, brought her in the house 
of the Count de Bruinsteen, without either he 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 89 

or the Countess having in advance, the least 
knowledge of it.” 

' “Calumny! falsehood !” cried the steward. 

“Pshaw,” said the governess, “remember 
your promise. I believe, however, that they 
seek to betray you and to throw the fault on you, 
so that you alone will bear the penalty of the 
crime, that the law punishes with five years im- 
prisonment. I wish to save you through grati- 
tude and devotion.” 

“Who can have told you such things?” mur- 
mured Matthew. 

“Can you not guess? The nurse is dead, but 
there are others who knew the secret of the theft 
of the child.” 

“Other persons? No, Martha.” 

“Were there no other witnesses? Sure?” 

“Not one; the nurse’s husband is dead for 
the past fourteen years.” 

This assurance struck a cruel blow, but she 
concealed her emotion and replied: 

“It spoke for itself; at least the Countess. . .” 

“The Countess? It is impossible.” 

“It was, however, the Countess who confided 
it to me.” 

“Would she be such a lunatic? Rather the 
devil himself gave utterance to this folly!” cried 
Matthew. “Ah! I know. She shall render me 
an account of her treachery.” 

And he rose as if to go out. But the gover 
ness, who had foreseen this, held his arm and 
said: 


90 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


‘‘ Subdue your indignation. If you leave this 
room until I have finished, nothing in the world 
can save you from dishonor and prison.” 

“But it is incomprehensible!” murmured 
Matthew. “In order to ruin me she puts her- 
self in the same danger. Who could utter such 
nonsense ? What can be her object?” 

“The one who provoked it. What intense 
hatred she bears you, and in accusing you of a 
crime before me, she wished to prevent our mar- 
riage; but you are not guilty of the theft of the 
child? Are you? Tell me, Matthew. I beg 
you, do not leave me in this terrible suspense. 
You hesitate? 

“ I do not know what reply to make, I seem 
to be dreaming.” 

“You perhaps helped the affair,” said the 
widow with treacherous sweetness; “but if you 
only accomplished the wishes of your master, 
you have been but the passive instrument of 
those who had a right to your obedience.” 

“Yes, yes, that was the way of it,” said the 
steward. 

“And in that case it will be easy to mediate 
in your behalf and to prove your innocence . . 
Tell me how did it happen? I already know 
all; but I wish to find in your recital means to 
defend you against your enemies. Conceal 
nothing. Afterwards I will tell you their in- 
famous project to ruin you.” 

The steward still hesitated, and bent his head 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


91 


to reflect. Martha kept her sparkling eyes fixed 
on him — hope and impatience caused her heart 
to beat furiously. 

“The Countess must be a fool,” thought 
Matthew; “to disclose such things to my future 
wife. Oh! I knew well there was a sting 
under her false amiability. But that her hatred 
and villainy could be behind on such a point, I 
should never have supposed it. That surpasses 
my penetration.” 

“Martha!” he added, “I do not wish to 
pretend that I am altogether innocent, but 
there is some one more guilty than I, and you 
can, T believe, forgive me.” 

“Have courage, Matthew; I would forgive 
much in the man who has protected and de- 
fended me.” 

“Well, listen; you are going to learn all. 
Madame ... or rather Margaret Schinspseu 
was maid, and I, servant at Count de Bruinsteen’s 
in Brussels, a man worn out and in his 
dotage, paralyzed with the gout, was in his arm 
chair for eight months of the year. Margaret 
b> deceit and flattery ruled him completely. 
The Countess’ only relatives were distant ones 
on his mother’s side, and she kept them at a 
distance so that she would have greater control. 
I believed that she was prompted by love and 
devotion for my master; and as she seemed 
gracious and generous towards me, I helped her 
all in my power. Was I to blame, Martha? 


92 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Gratitude is a noble sentiment.” She perceived 
that Matthew tried to justify himself, she gave 
undivided attention for she wished to know if 
he were telling the truth or a lie. 

“However, Margaret deceived me. She had 
a secret object, and wished after the old Count’s 
death to possess his fortune. The best means to 
accomplish that, she thought, was marriage. 
Beset on all sides, he allowed himself to be 
dragged into it; but Margaret only half suc- 
ceeded, for the marriage contract stipulated 
that considerable property of the Count’s 
would, if he had no children by this marriage, 
return to the legitimate heirs.” 

“And she had not a child?” interrupted the 
widow. 

“You are going to hear. Margaret lived two 
long years in great anxiety as the Count grew 
stronger and somewhat recovered his mind; he 
seemed to regret his marriage, and took a great 
dislike to his wife. There was very little hope 
that he would mention in his will one who had 
caused him to make a mesalliance. At last her 
earnest wish was gratified the third year of her 
marriage, heaven sent her a daughter, who 
received the name of Helen. But her joy was 
of short duration; the child was very delicate 
and ill two or three weeks she became so thin 
that she feared she would not live. You will 
understand madame’s grief and despair. Not 
only the mother suffered, but with the death of 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


93 


the child, the Count’s fortune slipped from her 
grasp. The doctor pretended that there only 
remained one hope, to procure for the child a 
strong nurse and good, fresh country air. I 
knew of a peasant who lived not far from 
Brussels. As the little Helen was almost dead, 
I left in the morning with the servant and 
child. But reaching the peasant’s I found the 
place already occupied.” 

“ The child of an officer of hussars!” sighed 
Martha in an almost inaudible voice. 

“Yes, of his widow, for the next day I learned 
he was dead. I knew not what to do, and was 
much distressed, fearing little Helen would die 
in my arms for want of proper care. By the 
promise of a generous recompense, I persuaded 
the peasant to take charge and nurse the child 
until I could find another nurse. Returning to 
the Countess, I told her of my ill luck, and tried 
to prepare her for the sad news she would prob- 
ably receive the next day or the day after. The 
news that her child was going to die, seemed to 
strike the Countess with indescribable despair 
and rage; nevertheless she had already some 
available resource for she begged me to say noth- 
ing of all that had happened, and after dinner 
feigned sleep to continue to mature at her ease 
a project as clever as it was criminal. 

“It was night before she called me . . . Alas! 
Martha, would to God I had never known this 
treacherous woman. My life would not be 


94 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


poisoned by incessant fear and eternal self- 
condemnation. My heart is honest, and of my- 
self I am incapable of committing an act of in- 
justice, but my pity . . . ” 

“What did she say to you?” interrupted the 
widow with palpitating heart, the words of the 
guilty one. 

“I resisted her, I refused; but she begged and 
supplicated me, bathed my hands with her tears 
and did so much that she would have softened 
the most obdurate heart. Should I refuse, she 
threatened vengeance, she would send me away. 
If, on the contrary, I would help her, she would 
make me rich.” 

“But what did she exact of you?” 

“Overcome by pity, I acceded to her request, 
and undertook to carry out her project . . .Yon 
are impatient, Martha. I fear to make this dis- 
closure. My mind revolted, my conscience made 
itself heard. Madame decided in case of Helen’s 
death to take the strange child in her place so 
as to insure to herself the Count’s fortune. Laden 
with gold and authority to make any promises, 
I left that same night under pretext of inquiring 
for the health of the child. She was still breath- 
ing, but there was little hope of her life. How 
will I tell you? It cost me a great deal to make 
this pure woman understand what I desired. At 
first she repelled the proposition with horror, 
but the sight of my gold and promise of an 
annual income finally overcame her scruples. 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


95 


Circumstances favored in every way the carry- 
ing out of my project. The mother of the other 
child was dangerously ill. The scheme could 
be carried out without any suspicions being 
awakened ... It happened thus: little Helen 
died the next evening. They announced to the 
officer’s widow that her child had died. A 
stranger assisted at the interment. No one sus- 
pected the slightest fraud; and three months 
after Count de Bruinsteen pressed the stolen 
child in his arms, thanking God for keeping his 
inheritance. . . I see tears in your eyes, Martha, 
it is a sad story and I have much to complain of. 
To be led by a false and wicked woman and to 
have suffered all my life for carrying out my 
master’s orders, when I was still ignorant of the 
ways of the world.” 

Martha was much agitated by the ending of 
the recital. It awoke sad thoughts and opened 
old wounds. Nevertheless she succeeded in hid- 
ing her emotions. Everything she did now was 
premeditated in her reflections, she had so well 
foreseen all the possible phases of this conversa- 
tion that she approached her object with a firm 
tread, in order to overcome all difficulties. After 
a short silence she sighed: 

“Poor Matthew! To be thus the victim of a 
too blind devotion. I pity you; the terrible 
danger which threatens you draws from me 
tears of pity and agony. Spitefulness is the 
victim of a corrupt heart. The one for whom 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


96 

you sacrificed yourself has prepared your down- 
fall, and means to give you up to justice.’’ 

“The Countess?” cried the steward. 

“Yes, the Countess.” 

“Never, that cannot be; I have proofs which 
should prevent her undertaking anything against 
me.” 

“You possess a written signature; I know.” 

“You know it,” murmured *the stupefied 
steward. 

The widow approached his chair as if to say 
something of importance. 

“Listen to me, Matthew; overcome for a 
minute your indignation and speak low,” she 
said. “What I have to tell you will fill you 
with fear and anger; but take courage and fear 
nothing; I will work with you against your 
enemies, and rest assured with our united 
energy we will frustrate all their wicked plans.” 

“I thank you for your devotion, and I feel 
happy that the calumny of the Countess has 
done me no harm in your estimation . . . But 
I do not understand what you fear, Martha. I 
repeat to you, madame cannot harm me.” 

“You think that, because you have in your 
possession some of her handwriting. But 
should she get this writing, would you not then 
be in her power? Could she not then pretend 
she knew nothing of the theft of the child? 
Who could prove that Helen is not her child 
since all the witnesses are dead; they would 
look on your accusation as a base invention.” 


THE STOLEN CHIED. 97 

“But she cannot get this writing; she does 
not know where it is.” 

“It is in the iron-bound chest,” said Martha. 

“No, no! that is not true,” cried Matthew 
trembling with surprise and fright. 

“Matthew, Matthew! why seek you to de- 
ceive me? You will not then permit me to 
save you ?” 

“Oh! I no longer know what I am saying. 
Yes, yes, Martha it is in the chest.” 

“Iron is strong, Matthew; but steel is 
stronger. If they would break open the chest 
during your absence, they would soon have the 
writing.” 

For a moment his anguish of mind was 
terrible, he drew a key from his pocket and 
opened the chest, closed it as quickly and re- 
turned to the widow with a joyous smile. 

“It is still there; no one has touched it,” he 
cried breathing freely. “But I should say 
some one had attempted to open the box,” he 
added, examining the lock . . . 

“Bah! I am foolish to be frightened, how 
could a woman open such a piece of workman- 
ship?” 

“There are locksmiths in the village.” 

“But what does that matter? Would the 
Countess be capable of so criminal an act?” 

“Judge for yourself, Matthew. Whilst you 
were away madame called me. Questioned me 
for almost an hour to find out if I would enter 
4 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


98 

into a league against you. She tried to make 
you so black and despicable in iny eyes that did 
I not know you so well, I would take you for a 
fiend. She promised me a fortune and a 
happy life. Inspired by my gratitude to you 
and hatred to her, I appeared to enter into her 
project and promised her faithfully my aid to 
deliver her, as she said, from your cruel tyranny, 
which has possessed her life for the past fifteen 
years ... Be calm I beg you, Matthew ... I 
have dragged from her thus the secret of her 
intentions towards you, and I will find means to 
protect you against her.” 

“But what is she thinking of,” murmured 
Matthew, struck by this revelation. “Is she 
indeed a fool?” 

“No, she knows well enough what she wishes. 
Her object is to destroy the proof of her com- 
plicity, and to crush you under her foot. And, 
some day, should the secret be discovered, to 
pretend she knew nothing.” 

“And she imagines she will take her writing 
from this chest.” 

“To-morrow you start on a trip; you will be 
absent until the next day. She will have time 
to open twenty such chests.” 

“Her hope will be frustrated,” said Matthew. 
“I will remain at home. In this way she . . . ” 

The widow had foreseen this reply, which 
seemed to make an impression on her. 

“Impossible! you will go. Should you re- 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


99 


main it would be necessary to tell the Countess 
the cause of your refusal. She will accuse me, 
with reason of double dealing; I will be lost. 
Alas! we will never again have the slightest 
hope of realizing our desires.” 

‘‘Well, there is another way; I will put the 
document in my note-book, and take it with 
me.” 

“Do not do that; the Countess has foreseen it. 
Should you leave it in your chest or take it with 
you, she has sworn to get hold of it. And rest 
assured she will succeed, if we do not find other 
means to deceive her.” 

“Truly, Martha, I do not understand you. 
How could the Countess gain possession of a 
paper that I carried about me? Whilst I am 
away, she . . . ” 

But the widow did not wish to give him time 
to reflect, and, having heard from a servant all 
that had transpired in the woods, she inter- 
rupted in a trembling voice: 

“Wait until I tell you more, Matthew. The 
Countess dared not tell me openly her thoughts; 
but I well understood by her voice that she 
would not withdraw, even to the extent of a 
crime. She thought perhaps you would take 
the writing with you, and she spoke in obscure 
terms of men paid to wait, to attack ...” 

“Of men paid to attack me?” he cried, his 
frightened mind recalling the scene of the even- 
ing. “Are you sure the Countess said such 
things?” 


lOO 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“Quite sure.” 

“Well, I will only travel in day time, and 
will not leave the high road, and will be well 
guarded.” 

“Vain precautions. If it were necessary, the 
men would be concealed in her own room. She 
will have the writing, no doubt of it.” 

“In that case I remain at home.” 

“And Helen? she must go. Delay would 
only make suspicion and prevent her entrance.” 

“But to-morrow morning I will say to the 
Countess that I know of her cowardly scheme 
against me. I will compel her to give it up in 
threatening her with my vengeance. I wish to 
see her at my feet begging for pardon.” 

“Oh, heaven! You wish to sacrifice me,” 
said Martha with pretended anxiety. “What! 
would you then dare to leave me at Orsdael a 
moment with the Countess? No, no; if you 
reveal my treachery I will fly from here at break 
of day. She must never know it. Never as 
long as she lives.” 

“What means must I use to put the writing 
out of her power?” 

Martha passed her hand across her forehead, 
appeared annoyed as to what means possible to 
save him. Suddenly she raised her head and 
uttered a cry of joy: 

“God be praised!” she cried, “I know an 
infallible means to deceive her and baffle all her 
attempts. Give me the writing, Matthew, I 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


lOI 


will sew it in the lining of my gown. No one 
will look for it there, and do what they will, 
she will never find the proof of her crime.” 

“Give you the writing? My sole proof against 
her wickedness, my security, my strength,” 
grumbled the steward with an ironical smile. 
“No, no, this treasure shall never leave me.” 

“I pray you, Matthew, let me save you,” 
cried the widow, pale and trembling. “Oh! do 
not refuse the only means of escaping the snares 
of your enemies.” 

The steward deceived as to the cause of the 
extreme agitation of the governess, said to her 
in a decided manner: 

“There, there, Martha, you exaggerate the 
danger which threatens me. For in any case, 
the Countess’ signature is an infallible means to 
protect me against her wicked designs. I thank 
you for your sympathy, but the writing will 
never be in other hands than mine. Speak no 
more of it. I will find a hiding place where no 
one can discover it.” 

Martha was bitterly disappointed, she put her 
hands before her eyes and uttered a piercing cry. 
Her tears this time were not pretense, her heart 
was really breaking. Her last hope in this ter- 
rible extremity she saw destroyed. Her 
daughter, her poor child would then be shut up 
in an asylum. 

This knowledge lacerated her heart, exting- 
uishing the last spark of hope. She gave her- 


102 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


self Up to her grief, sobbing and weeping until 
the tears coursed down her cheeks. 

Matthew, who thought her offended by his re- 
fusal tried to make her understand that she was 
mistaken. He said he did not doubt her affec- 
tion for him, and that he had confidence in her, 
but in this affair he had long since taken a firm 
resolution from which he could not depart, she 
must be quiet, he knew where to put the writing 
so as to frustrate any attempts of the Countess. 
But say what he would, the widow overcome at 
her defeat remained sobbing and weeping. The 
steward looked at her for some time, finally 
shook his head in despair and seemed to wrestle 
with a painful thought. Gradually however his 
face softened. Martha’s despair had more effect 
on him than more subtle efforts. 

“Well,” he cried at length, “you exact this 
proof of confidence? Ah! if you could know 
what you ask.” 

With these words he walked slowly towards 
the chest. 

The widow watched him; her chair shook 
under her. 

The steward turned towards her and placed in 
her hand a sealed envelope. 

“Take this, Martha, guard it with care until 
I return from my trip. Do not open it, hide it 
in your gown, do not let it out of your sight for 
a moment. You see that I have as much confi- 
dence in you as if you were already my wife. 
How moved you are. Calm yourself, my dear.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Trembling, and almost swooning with joy, 
Martha placed the writing in her bosom. At 
first she could not speak, but the possession of 
the precious paper soon raised her strength. 
She mastered her emotion and cried, in pressing 
feverishly the steward’s hand. 

“Oh! Matthew, if you could know how happy 
I am. The most beautiful dream of my life 
seemed to vanish, and suddenly it is realized. I 
will keep the writing as if my eternal salvation 
depended upon it. Should they point a sword 
to my breast I would not give it up. I swear it! 

. . . The day after to-morrow,” she replied, in 
changing her tone, “I will return it to you; we 
will then deliberate as to what remains for us to 
do. Retire now, Matthew. You are probably 
worn out, and you must start early to-morrow. 
Fear not, death itself could not tear from me 
this precious trust. 

“Yes, I am exhausted ; not only by the trip, 
but much more by the warning I received to- 
day. ’ ’ 

The governess, consumed by an inward fever, 
rose and said, walking to the door: 

“Sleep well, Matthew. Early to-morrow I 
will go to niadame; and if, during the night, 
she has concocted other schemes, I will quickly 
return to you. In any case, do not speak to her 
until we have talked matters over. Good 
night.” 

“Good night,” murmured Matthew, looking 
attentively at Martha. 


104 stolen child. 

This strange look frightened her, for she 
seemed to read in his eyes a longing to run after 
her and take the writing. She finally reached 
the door, turned her head, smiled sweetly, say- 
ing, “Good night, good night!” but as soon as 
she reached the corridor, she began to run on 
tip-toe as if she had wings. She bolted the 
door, ran to the window, measured with her eye 
the distance to the ground ; finally went to the 
table, lighted a lamp, and drawing the paper 
from her bosom, with a trembling hand broke 
the seal and unfolded it. 

“Oh! my God ! The recognition of my right 
as mother ! The Countess declares that she has 
ordered the theft of the child. The name, the 
sweet name of my Taura !” 

She was interrupted by a whisper ; she 
thought she heard her own name. A happy 
smile overspread her face. She rose, concealed 
the paper, and ran to Helen’s room. When she 
opened the door, she heard a sad cry : 

“Oh! Martha, is it really you? I cannot 
sleep. I dreamed that I would never see you 
again . . . ” 

But a kiss smothered the words on her lips. 

“My child, my dear child !” said the widow, 
in a trembling voice. “Stop, weep no more. 
You will not go to the convent. To-morrow 
you will be released ; to-morrow will commence 
for you a new and happy life. No more grief 
and fear. To-morrow you will see your enemies 
at my feet, begging and imploring for pity.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 105 

The girl, frightened by these ardent caresses, 
turned her head and murmured : 

“ But who are you then?” 

“Who am I? Who am I?” repeated the 
widow almost crazy with joy. “Who am I? . . 
The secret of my courage, my love, my life! I 
am, I am your . . ” 

“Oh, my God! What am I to do !” And 
she drew back trembling. 

Helen whose heart beat at the thought of the 
revelation held her hand in a supplicating 
manner, but Martha had recovered herself and 
said, kissing her on the forehead: 

“No, no, the time has not yet come. Be 
quiet, you are the light of my eye, my joy, my 
hope, but ask no questions. You will not know 
me until you are free. To-morrow, I^aura . . 
To-morrow, Helen, you will know the tie that 
binds us . .1 must leave you, my child. I fear 
I may yet yield to a temptation that may prove 
fatal to us both. Sleep, sleep in peace . . To- 
morrow a new sun will rise for us both.” 

She left the room, closing the door behind 
her. 


io6 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


CHAPTER VI. 

It was night and the woods and country 
were covered with darkness, already a doubtful 
light trembled in the East. Aurora would soon 
appear and flood the skies with her golden light. 
The shadow of a woman came through the 
thick foliage which bordered the road, she 
stopped gave a quick glance around trying to 
pierce the obscurity, and slowly approached the 
keeper’s house. 

She entered the garden through an opening 
in the hedge, went to a small window rapped 
and putting her mouth against the glass called 
mysteriously: 

‘ ‘ Catharine ! Catharine ! ’ ’ 

The window was opened. 

“Is it you, Martha?” asked the keeper’s 
wife with surprise. “ Heavens it is still night. 
What has happened?” 

“Hasten, come down, I must speak to you.” 

In five minutes Catharine appeared with her 
husband. “What are you doing here at such 
an hour ? Have you been obliged to leave the 
castle?” 

The widow threw her arms around her 
friend’s neck and whispered: 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


107 


“Catharine, Catharine, God has made me vic- 
torious, oh! that he will protect me for several 
hours longer, then my I^aura will be free. To- 
day she can speak of her mother before all the 
world.” 

“Well, what have you to say?” 

“Keep quiet, Catharine, your husband can 
hear all we say. I wish to be alone with you.” 

“Tet us go within; Andre will watch the 
door.” 

Catharine spoke a few words with her hus- 
band, then led the widow to an inner room, 
closed the door, and took her hand saying. 

“Here, Martha, we are perfectly private; sat- 
isfy my burning curiosity. Your Laura will be 
free to-day. Oh! that your wish may be rea- 
lized.” 

The widow related briefly all that had tran- 
spired how they had resolved to send her child 
to a private asylum. All that she had suffered 
in this extreme peril, and all that she had dared 
attempt in her despair. After a strong resist- 
ance the steward had given her the proof of her 
right as a mother, and allowed her to take away 
her child. 

Several times during the recital, Catherine 
had, in spite of herself, uttered cries of joy; but 
silenced by the widow, she sobbed quietly. 

“Calm yourself, Catherine; my time is prec- 
ious. You understand now why I am here. 
Possessing this precious paper, I dared not re- 


io8 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


main at the castle ; Matthew and the Countess 
might wrest it from me by violence. Indeed, if 
necessary, commit a crime. I am only a woman, 
and in need of the assistance of a man to protect 
me against the enemies of my child. I am going 
to Frederick Bergman, his uncle is a notary, he 
understands the law. They will tell me what I 
must do, and perhaps accompany me to Orsdael, 
to forbid Helen’s departure. They live two 
miles from here, the road is unknown to me, and 
so dark, I fear to go alone ; perhaps your hus- 
band will accompany me. Fear nothing, Cath- 
erine, it is the last sacrifice I will ask of you; 
whatever the result of the struggle, I will repay 
you, and remember you and yours until the end 
of my days.” 

“You recompense me,” sighed Catherine, 
sadly. “O Martha ! it is not kind to speak thus 
to me; my greatest joy is in your happiness.” 

“I know it, my friend; but your husband 
must not be the victim of your generosity. We 
must not quarrel on this subject. I must start ; 
they may possibly remark my absence, seek and 
follow me. My God ! should they suspect me, 
they could yet draw from me the liberty of my 
child — my life !” 

“Have confidence in my husband, Martha; 
he has his gun, and will protect you even at the 
price of his blood.” 

When the peasant entered the room, his wife 
said to him: 


THE STOLEN CHILD. IO9 

‘‘Andre, it is necessary to start immediately 
with the governess. She is charged with an 
important mission. As it is night, and unsafe 
for a woman to be out alone, the Countess 
wishes you to accompany her.” 

“Very well, wife; two minutes to put on my 
coat, and I am ready.” 

“Madame is going to Frederick Bergman’s. 
It may seem queer to you.” 

“Not at all. It matters little to me where the 
Countess sends me.” 

“Still a minute,” said Catherine; “ Madame’s 
message is a secret. No one must see her within 
half a mile of the Castle. You will lead her 
through the winding roads of the woods.” 

“Understood,” murmured the keeper, mount- 
ing the small stairway to prepare himself for 
the journey. 

“But, Martha,” asked the woman after a 
short silence, “I am wondering who opened the 
castle door. Some one must know of your be- 
ing out. ’ ’ 

“No one Catherine. I escaped through my 
bed-room window.” 

“How; from such a height? It is impossible ? 
You see, Catharine, when I found myself alone 
in the room with the proofs on my heart, it was 
impossible for me to find a moment’s repose. I 
trembled, my brow was covered with sweat 
caused by my great agony; fearing every mo- 
ment that Matthew would come and take the 


no 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


precious document from me. With my head 
out the window I calculated the distance I was 
to jump and my extreme peril; the least noise 
made me shiver. The cry of a night hawk 
nearly made me faint. Ah, I carried in my 
breast the deliverance of my child, and was yet 
at the mercy of her tyrants. I could not remain 
longer in that miserable perplexity. I was about 
to spring from the sill when a bright thought 
struck me; tying my sheets together I attached 
them to the iron bars and tried to descend to 
the foot of the wall. The great object in view 
gave me supernatural strength, for I fell from a 
great height without the slightest hurt. Skirt- 
ing the wall, I crossed the bridge and crept 
through the bushes.” 

The arrival of the game-keeper interrupted 
her explanation. Andre quietly placed his gun 
on the ground and said: 

“ Madame, I await your pleasure.” 

At the door the women embraced and ex- 
changed a few words, then Martha followed the 
keeper through the woods. He maintained 
silence, speaking only in a low voice when an 
obstacle presented itself in their path. After a 
good half hour, he led the widow into a large 
wood, day was just dawning, and one could 
already recognize objects in the mist. 

‘ ‘ Andr^, are we not in danger of meeting 
some one here?” 

“I do not think so, madame. It is so early.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Ill 


“If anyone eit route for Orsdael should see 
me,” sighed Martha. 

“The road is straight, Madame, I will look 
before me, if some one comes, we can go into the 
deep woods.” 

“No doubt this mystery astonishes you, my 
friend, but before noon you will know the 
cause. ’ ’ 

“It is not necessary, I am doing my duty and 
am not concerned about the rest.” 

“Strange things happen at Orsdael, and 
shortly there will be disclosures that will elec- 
trify every one. You are a good faithful man, 
and shall be rewarded. 

“Strange things, yes, yes, but that does not 
matter to me, you walk fast, Madame. 

“ My message requires great haste, but does it 
fatigue you. 

“No, it was only a remark,” but with the 
words he quickened his steps, so that the widow 
could scarcely follow him, although this haste 
was in accordance with her wishes. 

Occasionally, Martha broke the silence by a 
few words, merely to recognize her guide, but 
he, believing he was executing a commission for 
the Countess, answered only in monosyllables. 
By degrees the sky grew brighter, and they could 
see in the distance the church clock, like a 
beacon of light. 

They had passed several peasants, who, with 
pick-axes on their shoulders, were going to their 


II2 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


daily labors in the fields. As they neared the 
village, they encountered many more people: 
but, Martha, believing herself at a safe distance 
from her enemies, took no notice of the aston- 
ished glances of the peasants, continued her 
journey until the keeper stopped before a large 
house, and smilingly said : 

“Madame, here is the house of Mr. Berg- 
mans. Must I return to Orsdael?” 

Reflecting a moment^ she said, “Remain here, 
you cannot return to Orsdael.” 

“Yes, Madame, with your permission, I will 
go to the inn near by. If I am required, you 
can send for me.” 

An old servant opened the door, and after ex- 
amining the governess with care, asked : 

“Ah! for a will, is it not? Enter; the 
notary is still asleep, but I will awaken him.” 

“On entering, Martha said, “My good 
woman, you are mistaken ; I desire to speak to 
young Mr. Bergmans.” 

“ So early?” 

“Without delay.” 

“I do not know, I dare not,” stammered the 
woman. “Can you not wait half an hour.” 

“I insist. Go at once and say to Mr. Fred- 
erick that the governess from the castle is here, 
and wishes to speak with him on important busi- 
ness.” 

“The governess of Miss de Bruinsteen,” cried 
the astonished servant. “Ah! I understand. 


the; STOI.KN CHILD. 


Yes, yes, I am going to call him. Sit down, 
Madame ; he must at least have time to dress.” 

Martha remained some minutes alone. The 
certainty of having escaped the pursuit of her 
enemies, gave her courage, and made her heart 
beat with joy. When she heard a foot on the 
staircase, she arose, and awaited with profound 
emotion the arrival of Frederick.” 

“Good day, Madame,” said he ; “your pres- 
ence at so early an hour makes me think you 
have been ill-treated for my boldness of the 
other day. Forgive me ; I will do all in my 
power to rectify my mistake.” 

“No, no, that is not why I am here,” inter- 
rupted the widow. “I bring good news. 
Strange things have happened at Orsdael. Sit 
down and hear me quietly: 

Astonished at the happiness betrayed in her 
eyes, Frederick seated himself in a listening at- 
titude. 

“Helen’s fate will be completely changed to- 
day,” said Martha, “she will lo.se the name by 
which she is known, and at the same time, the 
large fortune which that name gives her. It is 
possible that this change may be a serious ob- 
stacle to your hopes, however you may judge of 
the loss. You have loved her too sincerely to 
refuse your assistance in her rescue; that aid I 
have now come to seek.” 

“What do you say?” cried the young man, 
growing pale. “Lose her name and fortune? 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


II4 

A new danger threatens her. I do not under- 
stand, madame.” 

“Well, you, as well as everyone else are under 
the impression that Helen is the child of the old 
Count de Bruinsteen; miserable lie, gross deceit. 
Helen is a child who was stolen from her nurse 
at Brussels.” 

This announcement stupefied Frederick; he 
gave Martha a look of incredulity and spoke in 
a voice scarcely intelligible. “You must be 
mistaken.” 

“The written proofs of the deception, exist. 
Helen’s true parents are poor, that is, in compar- 
ison with the wealth of the Countess de Bruin- 
steen.” 

A smile appeared on the face of the young 
man, and he exclaimed joyously. 

“Her fetters will fall, and her persecution will 
cease. God he praised this good, this innocent 
Helen will be free and happy; and since her par- 
ents have no reason to hate me they will accept 
my love for their child. Tell me, Madame, who 
is her father? I wish if possible to see and 
speak with him to-day.” 

“Her father is dead,” replied Martha, “her 
mother still lives. Poor woman, for eighteen 
long years, she mourned the death of her child, 
suffering shame, humiliation and bad treatment, 
receiving to-day the blessing of heaven in find- 
ing her lost darling.” 

The young man uttered a cry and extending 
his trembling hands to Martha said: 


THE STOEEN CHIED. 


II5 

“That proud glance, that look of happiness, 
that illumines your face, — Ah! my heart has 
not deceived me, you are Helen’s mother.” 

“Yes, Frederick, I am her mother.” 

“Madame,” said the young man, “ I admire 
you and love you already without knowing you. 
I will be your son. You know how disinter- 
ested and sincere is my love for your daughter. 
I am well enough off to insure her happiness. 
Besides, I will one day be a notary, and can 
earn for her and for you a comfortable and easy 
life. It is so, is it not? You are the mother 
of my friend, you will also consent to be my 
mother.” 

The notary, on opening the door, was aston- 
ished to find his nephew weeping in the arms of 
a strange woman, who uttered cries of joy and 
happiness. 

Mr. Rutgers, the maternal uncle of Frederick, 
was a man of fifty or sixty years of age, tall and 
slim, but still well preserved. A ribbon in his 
button-hole, his martial air, and a severe look 
showed that he had been a soldier. 

A glance at the woman did not produce a 
favorable impression on him, her clothes were 
in disorder, and soiled from the mud of the 
road. 

To avoid embarrassment and make his pres- 
ence known, the notary coughed lightly. 

Frederick ran to him with open arms. 

“Uncle, uncle,” he cried, “Helen is not 


ii6 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Madame de Bruinsteen’s daughter. They stole 
her from her parents. Here, here is her mother, 
her own mother! Now there is no obstacle to 
my happiness.” 

The notary, surprised at this outburst, pushed 
his nephew aside, and after a moment, asked: 

“Helen is not the daughter of Madame de 
Bruinsteen? You dream or you are mistaken. 
Now could it be possible? How do you know 
it, madame?” 

“From Matthew, the steward.” 

‘ ‘ And what did he tell you ? Speak, I beg you 
give some explanation, for this news if true is 
more important than you think.” 

“The child of the Countess was ill and dying, 
soon after its birth; they put it out to nurse with 
a woman who lived near Brussels. At the time 
she had already the care of another child who 
had received the name of Laura. When the 
Countess learned that her child was dying, she 
sent Matthew to the nurse to bribe her to com- 
mit a crime. They changed the little ones 
making me believe that my child had died dur- 
ing the night. They buried the child of the 
Countess, and some months after Madame de 
Bruinsteen had my child brought to her house. 
In this way she hoped to keep her husband’s 
property. The nurse is dead, all the witnesses 
are dead. 

“But the proof of all this?” cried the notary, 
much agitated. 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 1 17 

“The steward has told all the circumstances 
to me.” 

“He tells you an untruth: he must have de- 
ceived you. Has he no proofs ?’ ’ 

Martha drew from her bosom a folded paper. 

“ Here, read this, sir : this writing, signed by 
the countess herself, is proof sufficient. ” 

The old man slowly read the paper, at times 
raised his shoulder and uttered exclamations as 
if scarcely crediting what he read. 

“Is it possible?” he murmured as if to him- 
self. “Yes, yes, of this heartless woman we can 
well believe it. Only a miserable thief would 
appropriate another woman’s child, to deprive 
her husband’s legitimate heirs of their property. 
Strange discovery!” 

He walked in the room, looked at his nephew 
with a pleased expression, and said: 

“Come, come, to my heart, happy one.” 

Frederick, who was mistaken as to the im- 
port of these words, threw himself on his uncle’s 
neck and thanked him warmly for his consent 
to his marriage. He told the old man that 
Helen, rather I^aura, would be to him a gentle 
daughter; they would both love him as a bene- 
factor and father. 

These thanks seemed to displease the notary. 
He frowned, repulsed the young man, and shak- 
ing his head, said to the widow in returning the 
paper: 

“ Madame, will you excuse me? I have a few 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Il8 

words to say to Frederick in private. In a mo- 
ment he will return. ’ ’ 

Taking his nephew’s arm, he led him into an 
office, closed the door, and with much emotion 
said to him: “When the Count de Bruinsteen 
died, his only heirs were his mother’s relatives; 
these heirs being the Dalsten brothers. Miss 
Vandael, and your "mother. The first three died 
without descendants; your mother was their legit- 
imate heir, at the same time she also inherited 
from the count. All the fortune that Madame 
de Bruinsteen possessed has now fallen to you. 
The Castle of Orsdael, all the other property, is 
now yours. You are a millionaire, and as 
money is a real power and deserves respect, I 
make my bow to you.” 

This information bewildered the young man; 
he looked at his uncle without speaking, as if 
he doubted the possibility of so unexpected a 
fortune. 

“I — I will be the only heir to the Count de 
Bruinsteen.” 

“The only heir, my nephew; no one can dis- 
pute the succession.” 

The young man raised his eyes to heaven 
and cried with rapture: 

“Oh! my God! I thank you. You have 
given me the means to make her happy.” 

But the Notary took him by the hand, saying 
in a reproachful tone: “Be not so childish, 
Frederick; you will cause much grief to the per- 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


II9 

son waiting in there, by giving her hope for 
that which can never be realized. Miss de 
Bruinsteen exists no longer; you are a million- 
aire; all former ties are broken between you and 
Helen.” 

“What — what do you say?” cried Frederick, 
trembling with indignation. “Fate has given 
me her fortune, and I give her up because my 
happiness has deprived her of the fortune she 
would one day have possessed? I would then 
never have loved her, but her money. No, no, 
my uncle, you are mistaken; Helen — Faura will 
become my wife. I wish it now more than 
ever. This fortune, that has for so long a time 
belonged to her, would become odious to me, 
could I not share it with her.” 

“But duty, decency, the world?” 

“Nothing can make me change. My good 
uncle, forgive me — the thought of so cruel a be- 
trayal wrings my heart.” 

“ So be it; this fortune renders you independ- 
ent,” replied the notary with a discontented 
air. “ Nevertheless you will yet reflect. If you 
are so young and generous as to be indifferent to 
fortune, you will not be so indifferent to honor 
— the name, at least, of the family to which you 
will offer your hand and name.” 

“Ah ! that family can but be honorable,” he 
cried joyously. 

“ Imprudent boy — a governess, a servant !” 

“A servant,” repeated the young man, “it is 


120 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


a ruse ! This woman disguised herself to liber- 
ate her child. She belongs to a most aristocratic 
family.” 

“Who is Helen’s father? ” 

“He is dead.” 

“But what rank had he?” 

“I do not know; but rest assured, my uncle, 
that the woman whom you regard as a servant 
has received a most beautiful education, and 
everything shows she has always been accus- 
tomed to good society. It is a secret that I have 
respected because I believe it necessary for 
Helen’s welfare.” 

“Well, be prudent, Frederick,” said the 
notary, going towards the door. “Be calm, we 
will learn the secret. I hope, in any case, your 
wife will be one whom I can receive.” 

Entering the room he approached the widow, 
excusing his short absence, and said: “Madame, 
before we speak again of the surprising news 
you have given us, permit me, I beg, to ask to 
whom I have the pleasure of speaking. The 
interest we have in the fate of your daughter 
makes us anxious to know her family.” 

“I understand,” replied Martha, with a smile 
of wounded pride. “Helen, or rather Eaura, 
when she takes her own name, is the daughter 
of honorable people, and her mother can give 
her a dowry of five hundred thousand dollars.” 

“Five hundred thousand dollars!” cried the 
notary. “You can give your daughter a dowry 
like that? You, madame?” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


I2I 


“Ah! ah, now you see! Did I not tell you 
so?” said Frederick. 

“And as far as her name is concerned, I do 
not know that Laura will lose by the exchange. 
She is the daughter of an officer who died for his 
country . . . ” 

“Thank God!” said Frederick, raising his 
eyes towards heaven. 

“An officer!” cried the notary with a pleased 
smile. 

“An officer of hussars, who was killed at the 
Battle of Waterloo.” 

“What regiment?” he asked. “ A friend, a 
comrade, perhaps . , . ” 

“The 8th regiment, sir.” 

“His name, his name?” 

‘ ‘ Hector Hagens. ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes, I knew him, knew him well,” 
cried the old man. “A courageous soldier, a 
generous heart. You are his widow, madame? 
Your father’s name is? ... ” 

“Jacques Sweerts.” 

“Captain Sweerts, from whom I received my 
sword ? ’ ’ 

“Captain Sweerts, sir.” 

Overcome by emotions and the recollections of 
the past, the notary fell on Martha’s neck and 
pressed her to his heart. Then the old man ran 
to his nephew, embraced him also, and cried: 

“Ah, Frederick, you are indeed doubly happy. 
Helen is worthy of you . . . Helen . . . Laura 


122 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Hagens will become your wife, and I, your old 
uncle, will take greater pleasure in this than in 
your fortune. 

“Madame, madame, your father was my pro- 
tector, your husband my comrade and friend: 
by the remembrance of that we will be brother 
and sister, we will rejoice together at the happi- 
ness of our dear children.” 

Then he told Martha that Frederick was the 
sole heir to the Count de Bruinsteen. 

The widow, possessed by a secret anxiety, 
soon interrupted him, and said: 

“Gentlemen, allow me now to tell you why I 
am here. Yesterday Madame de Bruinsteen de- 
termined to shut my daughter in a private 
asylum. ... I beg you, Frederick, do not in- 
terrupt me. . . • . It is not possible, you say. 
Yes, it is possible; and would have happened 
were I not so fortunate as to have in my posses- 
sion a document which will free her forever. 
A physician gave to the Countess a diagnosis 
stating that my daughter was insane. This 
morning at ten o’clock a carriage is to come from 
the city to take her to the asylum. I know 
there is ample time to reach Orsdael before that; 
but gentlemen, you will understand my im- 
patience. I cannot rest as long as my child is 
in the power of these tyrants. There are times 
when my heart sinks and I feel as though I 
would fail.” 

‘ ‘U nquestionably ! Certainly — I will get a car- 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


123 


riage for you; you will start immediately,” in- 
terrupted the notary. 

“I will accompany you,” said Frederick. 

“It is what I wish to ask both you and your 
uncle. I am only a woman and dare not go 
alone to Orsdael. They might, perhaps, use 
force and take the proof from me. Then all 
hope of my child would be lost. I beg you, 
come with me; do not refuse me your help.” 

“I refuse?” said the notary, “rather I will 
accompany you with joy. I can, indeed, be use- 
ful. Fortunes and family affairs are in my juris- 
diction. Be tranquil, I will give orders for the 
carriage; I have two good horses that go like 
the wind.” 

He rang: “Barbary,” he said, “put the horses 
in as quickly as possible;’ let me know as soon 
as they are ready.” 

“A moment’s patience, and in a short while 
we will be on our way to Orsdael. . . . What a 
blow for Madame de Bruins teen! Yesterday a 
countess and a millionaire, to-day poor, dis- 
graced, and convicted of a crime punishable by 
law with five years’ imprisonment.” 

“Ah! and Matthew,” cried the young man, 
“ this man without heart, this vile instrument 
of a cruel woman, can never have punishment 
sufficient to atone for all he has caused my poor 
Laura to suffer.” 

The widow cast down her eyes and seemed to 
think deeply. In a moment she looked up and 
asked the notary: 


124 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“ Do you not know Catharine Peeters, the wife 
of the game-keeper at Orsdael?” 

“Indeed, yes,’’ replied the old man, “she 
was sutler in her father’s company. I know her 
well and chat with her each time we meet.’’ 

“This woman watched all night over my 
wounded husband on the field of Waterloo; ’twas 
through her I became governess at Orsdael; she 
has sacrificed everything for me. Without her 
aid, poor Laura would be placed in an asylum. 
My happiness, yours, Frederick, the rescue of my 
child, and your fortune are all the work of that 
noble, courageous woman. And since you are to 
become the head of the family, I charge you, my 
son, with this, the payment of a most sacred 
debt. ’ ’ 

“Thanks, my mother,” said Frederick, with 
emotion. “Say no more. The power of do- 
ing good is given me; I will show you I know 
how to use it. Rest assured Catharine shall 
never regret what she has done. ’ ’ 

A servant entered saying, “The carriage is 
ready, sir.” 

In going toward the door the widow objected. 
“But should we not have the Burgomaster? 
Suppose the Countess should refuse to give up 
the child?” The notary reflected, finally said: 

“Let us go: it will cause a delay of several 
hours. The proof you have will defy all resist- 
ance; the sight of that document will shock her 
like a thunderbolt.” 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


125 

The game-keeper who stood with his gun, 
asked if he should return to the castle. Martha 
after a few words with Frederick, told him he 
should breakfast at the notary’s and then await 
further orders. 

Stepping into the carriage, they were soon on 
the road to Orsdael. 


126 


THK STOLEN CHILD. 


CHAPTER VIL 

Matthew had passed a miserable night. Al- 
though much excited by the events of the day, 
fatigue made his sleep troubled by miserable 
dreams. 

At sunrise, when the castle bell called the 
workmen, Matthew awoke in a cold perspiration. 
He tried to go off to sleep again ; but the recol- 
lections of his terrible dream caused his heart to 
beat so furiously that he could not quiet himself. 
He sat up in bed, finally dressed, all the while 
muttering to himself. 

“Why should I be so agitated? It is only a 
frightful dream. Martha is devoted to me; her 
interests are the same as mine. Why would she 
deceive me? In any case I have been impru- 
dent, thus to put myself in a woman’s power. 
I must have been bewitched or demented! . . . 
The Countess is the cause of it all. Her hatred 
must indeed be strong to have told to a stranger 
all that wicked story. It is incomprehensible, 
and if it were possible, I would say that Martha 
lied shamelessly. But no one on earth knew of 
this dreadful affair but the Countess and myself: 
it is she, then who has maliciously betrayed me. 
How can I avenge myself? Before taking the 


THK ST6I.KN CHILD. 


127 


idiot, I wish to see the Countess at my feet . , . 
First I will get the proofs from Martha; without 
this armor I am powerless. Ah! we will see. 
The Countess must render me an account of her 
infamous conspiracy.” 

With these words he knocked at Martha’s door, 
listened, and knocked again, “Martha, Martha, 
it is I. I will await you, but answer me, I 
pray. ’ ’ 

The most complete silence reigned about him; 
he became somewhat anxious, called the gover- 
ness loudly, knocking against the door; but it 
was useless, all was as silent as the tomb. 

A stifled cry escaped him; he grew pale, al- 
though he tried to reassure himself thinking 
probably Martha had risen early. 

He ran down stairs, asked the porter if he had 
seen Martha. The latter answered in the nega- 
tive, at the same time mentioning the workmen 
and others who had left the castle that morning, 
said he had the only keys, and since the bell had 
sounded he had been at the door. 

The last words caused a smile of relief. The 
governess was then certainly in the castle, for 
there was only the large door. Nevertheless he 
was not quite satisfied, and went from the top to 
the bottom of the house, asking every one if 
they had seen the governess. He remembered 
that Martha had said she would rise early. 

He then went up the stairway that led to 
Madame de Bruinsteen’s apartments; her maid 
told him that madame was still sleeping soundly. 


128 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“Go to madame, ask her for the keys of 
Martha’s room; I must have them immediately. 
If you do not bring them I will get them myself. 
Run, fly! Madame must get up, otherwise some- 
thing may happen.” 

The servant brought two keys. Without 
waiting to hear what the Countess was saying 
Matthew hurried up the steps. He opened the 
door of Martha’s room, and on glancing at the 
bed found it empty. Pale and trembling, he 
opened the second door and saw the young girl 
seated at the end of the room. She must know 
what had happened if she was dressed at such an 
early hour. 

Matthew approached the young girl, and 
seizing her wrist, nearly crushed it. 

“Pay attention and be truthful, because if 
you attempt to deceive me, I am capable of 
almost anything. Where is the governess? ” 

“I do not know,” stammered the trembling 
girl. 

“Wretch! do not lie, or I will kill you.” 

“Have pity! I know not ; were you to take 
my life I could tell you nothing further.” 

“Why are you already up and dressed?” 

“A strange noise wakened me.” 

“What noise?” 

“A blow, as if something had fallen.” 

But the young girl, frightened at the thought 
that telling the truth she would put her bene- 
factress in danger, began to cry and said: 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 1 29 

“A noise, a falling.” 

“Do not make iiiy blood boil, unhappy one,” 
cried Matthew. “What did you hear?” 

“The night hawk, without doubt.” 

The steward understood that the girl knew 
much that she wished to hide. He knew her 
inflexibility, and was furious that she would tell 
him nothing. Turning towards the door, he 
cried menacingly, “Wait a minute, I will 
make you speak.” In leaving the room he 
spied a piece of folded paper which had been 
pushed back by the door when he opened it. 
He unfolded the paper and read the following 
lines, written in lead pencil: 

“Helen, I leave to save you. Whatever 
happens, fear nothing. My promise will be ful- 
filled; in a few hours I will rescue you for 
ever. ’ ’ 

Matthew looked at the paper for some time, 
with a puzzled air; then uttering a cry of rage, 
ran into the other room, seeking to wreak his 
vengeance on Helen, when he noticed the sheets 
that were tied to the iron bars. 

“Gone! Fled during the night,” he cried. 
“It is impossible to follow her; she is already 
several miles from Orsdael. Alas! she has 
ruined my life. I am lost, lost.” 

Paralyzed with anger, and terribly frightened, 
he rushed towards the young girl, took her by 
the shoulders, and shaking her violently, asked : 

“Where is your governess? What has she 
5 


130 THE STOLEN CHILD. 

promised? What is she going to do? Speak, 
or I will surely kill you.” 

But the girl, shaking her head, turned her 
back and remained silent, although the steward 
menaced her several times, and in his anger, 
struck her with his fist on the head and shoulders. 
He then left the room, cursing and swearing, but 
stopped in the corridor to reflect on his critical 
situation. He was as pale as death, his knees 
trembled, his brain was bewildered. 

What could be Martha’s intention? She 
wished without doubt to be revenged on the 
Countess, who had maltreated her, but she did 
not understand, in her folly, that she would lose 
at the same time her enemy and her protector. 

He went down stairs, and opening the drawing 
room door found the maid, who said to him 
that madame had risen and was coming down. 

He fell on a chair, distracted anew by terrible 
perplexities. 

Martha could not wish him any harm — she 
was without doubt deceived as to the results of 
what she was going to do. 

Perhaps he could still prevent the disclosure 
of the secret, because Martha would certainly 
follow his advice as soon as he could speak with 
her. In this uncertainty he resolved to say no- 
thing to the Countess of his permitting Martha 
to carry away the proofs of the substitution of 
the child. He was very much ashamed of this 
weakness, well convinced besides that the Conn- 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 13I 

tess would neither fear nor spare him when she 
knew the paper was not in his possession. 

When Madame de Bruinsteen entered the room 
she was surprised to see tears in Matthew’s eyes. 

“You weep, Matthew? — you inspire me with 
dread. What has happened? The servants 
speak of something terrible, but I trust it is no- 
thing.” 

The steward closed the door and stood with 
his arms crossed and his eyes burning before the 
Countess. 

“ Sit down madame, sit down, I command you. 
You have committed a crime, I am your inexor- 
able judge. What did you say yesterday to the 
governess? 

“What does this mean?” murmured the 
Countess; “you frighten me.” 

“Answer me,” said Matthew, looking her in 
the face with contracted lips and closed teeth. 
“What did you say yesterday to Martha?” 

“My God! What is the matter with you?” 
stammered the Countess, frightened; “ they say 
you wish to kill me. Oh ! I am going to call for 
help.” 

“A single cry, and I will break your head,” 
cried the steward beside himself. “Answer me 
then.” ' 

“What did I say to the governess? Oh! 
nothing much, Matthew. It is true I told her 
that Helen would be taken to an asylum to-day.” 

“It is not that.” 


132 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“I did not even mention the name of the 
house.” 

“Miserable imposter,” cried Matthew, “you 
do not wish to avow your fault. Your mask 
will fall. Madame, I know all.” 

“What do you know? Speak clearly, I beg 
of you. You make me tremble.” 

“Have you not told Martha the secret of 
Helen’s birth ? ” 

“What a stupid idea! Am I going to lose 
myself? ’ ’ 

“You did not say that Helen was the child 
of an officer of hussars? and that she was stolen 
from the nurse at Brussels?” 

“What a question. My God! not a word has 
escaped me.” 

“What boldness! The denial is useless. You 
wished to be revenged on me, and told Martha 
the child was carried to your house against your 
wishes. Weak liar that you are, you think to 
throw the blame on me, but you are mistaken. 
The prison . . . .” 

“Shut up, stop your impudence,” said the 
Countess, “some one will hear you. What bad 
dream has turned your head? Your mind is 
wandering. I reveal to the governess the secret 
of Helen’s birth? I sell my liberty and honor to 
be revenged on you? How absurd! How im- 
possible!” 

“Traitress!” groaned Matthew. 

“You do not wish to believe me?” said Madame 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


133 


de Bruinsteen. If you can prove to me that I 
have by one word given her the least suspicion 
of this secret, I will give you the half of my 
fortune. You laugh. Is it not enough? If 
you find me capable of such stupidity, I permit 
you before God and the world to be revenged 
on me, even to kill me.” 

These words, pronounced with great energy, 
gave no further room for doubt. 

Matthew let his head fall on his breast, con- 
vinced at last that he had been wrong in accus- 
ing the Countess. He was overpowered with 
despair, he blushed with shame, to think that 
he had been led by a blind love to a fatal reve- 
lation, and that he had acted treasonably to- 
wards his accomplice. He finally resolved not 
to admit that he had spoken of the crime to 
Martha. Though filled with fear, he had a 
secret hope that Martha would hear nothing 
against him, but this hope was very uncertain. 
A cold sweat stood on the steward’s brow. 

“Go, my good Matthew,” said the Countess, 
“You are ill. I am sorry for your foolish terrors. 
Try to calm yourself. There is an infallible way 
of convincing you that your suspicions are 
wrong. I am going to ring for Martha.” 

“Useless,” said Matthew, “Martha is no 
longer at Orsdael. She tied her sheets to the 
iron bars and escaped by the window from the 
castle. God knows if she is not already four or 
five miles from here with our secret. Alas, 
what will happen?’ 


134 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


The Countess stared at him for a minute as if 
stunned by the news. “Fled?” she repeated. 
“Martha has fled from the castle during the 
night? What do you mean?” 

She approached Matthew with an expression 
of suppressed anger and demanded in a severe 
voice: 

“You say that she has fled with our secret: 
have you been weak enough to confide it to 
her?” 

“It is needless, she knows all.” 

“But who told her?” 

“Not I.” 

“You must have done so. I have several 
times feared your idiotic love for that woman 
would bring you into trouble — the idea of your 
being blind to that excess of folly and crime! ” 

“My head was turned. I do not know what 
happened,” said Matthew, with a groan. “It 
is an enigma that fills me with fear. I said 
nothing to her; she has learned nothing from 
me. How does it happen then that she knows 
all ? Is there still some one else who knows our 
secret?” 

“No one but us — then I do not understand 
you,” said the Countess. “You are as frightened 
as if your sentence rung in your ears, Matthew; 
I thought you more courageous. What does it 
matter? Martha will say that Helen is not my 
daughter. Well, I will insist that she is calum- 
niating me, and in case of necessity I will make 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


135 


her swear, in order to apologize for the insult to 
my honor. Nothing is more simple. There is 
neither testimony nor proof, and even if you 
have disclosed the secret it will only be necessary 
to say she is lying.” 

Matthew drew a profound sigh, but answered 
nothing. 

Madame de Bruinsteen remarked, after a brief 
silence: 

“This is what disturbs me — I cannot imagine 
what Martha has in view, to fly thus, in the 
middle of the night. A surprise of Frederick 
Bergmans, no doubt. Matthew, Helen is in her 
room ?” 

“Yes, yes, she is in her room,” he answered, 
in searching his pockets, “see, she put this letter 
under her door: perhaps it will explain Martha’s 
intentions.” 

The Countess took the letter and read it. 
At first her lips contracted with rage, then an 
ironical smile played about her mouth. “‘I 
leave to save yon. In several hours you will 
be free.’ . . . Ah! only that? We will see. 
Matthew, Helen’s room is locked? Do you not 
see, it is only trouble that Frederick Bergmans 
wishes to cause us? He has bribed Martha like 
Rosalie, with money and promises, to forward 
his schemes. I understand the whole affair. 
She has gone to tell Frederick that Helen has 
been taken to an asylum : they hope to prevent 
it. Hasten, Matthew, we will overthrow their 
hopes.’’ 


136 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


“We possess infallible means,” murmured 
Matthew, more than ever plunged in deep 
thought. “Certainly, they will come with the 
representatives of the law.” 

“The representatives of the law have nothing 
to do here, and besides, they will not find Helen. 
We will not wait for the carriage that is coming 
from the city. Make haste and have our horses 
harnessed, and you can start with her. What- 
ever Martha and Frederick have intended, they 
will fail; for as soon as Helen is several miles 
from here I fear nothing. All that they could 
do would be to delay the departure of the crazy 
girl, but as soon as she has started I will have 
plenty of time to institute a suit against Martha 
and her accomplice. I do not understand how 
you could be so cowed by an event so disagree- 
able, it is true, but none the more agreeable for 
us. What can they do to us without testimony 
and without proof? Let us be courageous. Pre- 
pare for your journey, start without delay, make 
the horses fly, and Helen will soon be beyond 
the reach of our persecutors.” 

Matthew rose and reflected: a smile illumin- 
ated his face, while he said with emphasis: 

“Yes, start immediately, go far, very far. I 
have an idea that if I go to Paris with Helen” — 

“Why not to an asylum?” 

“There are plenty of asylums in France.” 

“I do not understand your intention.” 

“You see, madame, the authorities could de- 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


137 


mand the name of the asylum, and perhaps our 
enemies might gain their ends. In France, all 
their researches would be vain. Later you could 
write me, when all would be over, and I could 
bring her back. I could take enough money to 
surmount all difficulties.” 

The Countess regarded him with a sneering 
air. 

“Matthew, you are afraid. Like a child, you 
are thinking more of your own safety than of 
Helen’s. I would not be surprised if in an ex- 
agerated fear you would not like to carry away 
all your money. However, go to France — it is 
perhaps a prudent measure; but order the horses 
immediately, so that there will be no delay when 
you are ready. I do not believe you have any- 
thing to fear at present. Hasten however, it is 
necessary to be foreseeing.” 

The steward went towards the door. The 
Countess cried to him again: 

“Have courage Matthew; things are not so 
bad as they seem.” 

But he had hardly left the house before he be- 
came as pale as death, trembling in every limb. 

“Well, what has happened now,” cried the 
Countess, who followed him with her eyes. 

“Too late, too late,” said the steward. 
“There is a carriage, and in it are seated Martha 
and Frederick. There are others in the carriage. 
Wretched woman, we are lost.” 

“Lost?” said the Countess, after a moment’s 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


138 

reflection. “I^ost. Not yet, Matthew. If this 
evil must come we will at least be revenged on 
our persecutors. They will not succeed. Go; 
hasten and take Helen to the cellar under the 
tower by the secret stairway. No one will find 
her. Remain near her until I call you. I will 
say she has already gone. I^eave it to me, and 
trust me our enemies will leave the castle with- 
out discovering anything. Then you can take 
the idiot to France. But, my God! how fright- 
ened and undecided you look.” 

She took him by the shoulders, and pushing 
him towards the door, watched him a minute, 
saw him disappear at the landing, then turned 
towards the hall, and seated herself on a sofa 
in a most indifferent attitude. 

A moment later the door was opened, and 
Martha and Frederick entered. 

“Vile deceiver!” cried the Countess, , point- 
ing towards the door, “out of my sight, or I 
will call my servants to chase you from the 
castle. Justice will punish you for your per- 
versity!” 

And she rose to ring the bell, but the notary 
stayed her hand. 

“What does this mean?” she said, “you use 
violence in my own house? We will see how 
this will end. I am only a woman, but . . . ” 

“Sit down, madame; I beg you spare yourself 
an inevitable shame,” said the notary, conduct- 
ing her to the sofa with a frigid air. “Hear me 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


139 


a minute. You understand without doubt, that 
a noise of any kind will be very bad for you.” 

“Well! what have you to say to me?” grum- 
bled the Countess. 

” Madame, the child born of your marriage 
with Count de Bruinsteen lives no longer; she 
died the loth of February, 1816. By a criminal 
substitution, they brought into your house the 
child of an officer of hussars, called Hector 
Hagens. Justice alone can punish such an act. 
We are here in the name of the legitimate 
mother, to require the immediate restitution of 
the child. Do not refuse us, madame; your re- 
sistance will only cause us to call in the author- 
ity of the law, and reflect on the public shame 
you will draw on yourself.” 

“Ah! ah!” sneered the Countess, “you will 
not deny that I have calmly heard the story of 
the officer’s child; it is a clever invention. As 
to Helen, she is no longer at Orsdael.” 

“Heavens!” cried Martha, growing pale; “no 
longer at Orsdael?” 

“You thought I did not understand why you 
had fled like a thief in the night,” replied the 
Countess victoriously. “There on the table is 
the piece of paper which you had thrown under 
Helen’s door. Unfaithful servant, you were go- 
ing to deliver her — meaning that you would sell 
her in order to betray me. Whatever means you 
intended to employ, your plot is destroyed in ad- 
vance. Helen is far from here, going to a for- 


140 THE STOLEN CHILD. 

eigii country. She will never return to Belgium, 
and none of you know where she is.” 

There was a heart-rending cry, and Martha 
fell unconscious on the floor of the room. Fred- 
erick rushed to her, took her in his arms, raised 
her head, and tried to recall her to conscious- 
ness. 

“Madame,” said the notary, “you are going 
too far. We have proofs: you will be put in 
prison.” 

“What proofs can you have of what is not 
true?” 

“The signature is in your handwriting.” 

“A forgery!” 

“Wait, you will be convinced.” The notary 
went to the fainting widow and felt in the 
folds of her gown for the written proofs. His 
search was fruitless; he trembled with anxiety 
and impatience at the idea of having lost the 
precious paper. 

“My God! my God! it is not possible! Martha, 
Martha!” 

But at this moment confused cries were heard 
in the castle, and before they could move the 
door was violently opened, and Helen, pursued 
by the steward, rushed in and threw herself at 
the feet of the Countess. 

Matthew, who appeared white with rage, 
wished to stop her; but Frederick, letting Mar- 
tha fall in the arms of the notary, rushed for the 
steward, took him by the throat, and throwing 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


141 

him against the wall as if beside himself, cried: 
“A step, a movement, and I will crush you.” 

During this time the young girl, utterly terri- 
fied, cried, extending her arms toward the 
Countess: 

“Oh! my mother, pardon me, have pity, he 
will kill me. I am your child; spare my life, 
mother, dear mother!” 

This cry of distress, this sweet name of 
mother, reached the heart of the widow. She 
opened her eyes, threw an uncertain look around 
her, and heaving a deep sigh, opened her arms. 

The notary took her hand and said, in a 
trembling voice: 

“The proof, the paper! Ah! it is here!” and 
turning towards the Countess, “now madame, 
you remember ordering your servant to steal the 
child. It is impossible to deny it — all the mis- 
erable circumstances accompanying the crime. 
You know what awaits you; the loss of your 
fortune; the everlasting disgrace of a five years’ 
imprisonment.” 

Madame de Bruinsteen held her eyes for a 
minute on the paper, then becoming pale, trem- 
bled in every limb. She looked in a revengeful 
manner at Matthew, uttered a piteous cry, and 
hid her face in her hands. 

“Mother, mother! what is the matter? What 
new danger threatens you?” anxiously asked the 
kneeling girl. 

“Laura . . . Helen,” cried the widow, re- 


142 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


covering herself. “ No longer call that woman 
your mother. Come to my heart, dear one.” 

But suddenly she became quiet, fearing the 
effect of her revelation on the child. 

“Oh! Martha, you here,” cried the girl, 
throwing herself into the arms of the widow, 
who having embraced her tenderly, took her arms 
from her neck and said with apparent calm: 

“Helen, you are not the child of that woman; 
you were stolen from your cradle. She was 
your evil genius. She is a stranger in heart 
and feeling. God has restored to you your own 
mother.” 

The young girl looked at her anxiously. 

“My mother? Ah! and is she still alive?” 
she asked in a scarcely intelligible voice. 

“She lives, she lives! Control yourself.” 

“Heavens,” cried the young girl, “that celes- 
tial smile, that look, your soul in your eyes! O 
Martha, Martha, if you were my mother I should 
die of happiness. ” 

“Well, Helen, you are my child. I am your 
mother.” The young girl was almost uncon- 
scious on her mother’s breast, tears of joy flowed 
down her cheeks, she caressed and embraced her, 
then suddenly said: 

“I have a father also, have I not? Where is 
he?” 

“Alas! your father is no more. Here, my 
child, is his likeness.” She handed the girl a 
small gold locket. 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


143 


“Hector, my father?” cried Laura, throwing 
herself on her knees; “I now understand the 
secrets with which I was surrounded. I have 
suffered a great deal; but God is good, and the 
reward is greater than all the agony endured.” 

Frederick remained by her side, gazing with 
happiness and admiration on her face. These 
revelations had taken place so quickly that 
Helen had not had time to notice his presence. 

Martha took her hand, and giving it to 
Frederick said, “Laura is your name, my child, 
and you must thank the good God, who not only 
restores to you your mother, but who gives you 
also a husband worthy of your love.” 

The young people embraced each other with 
tears of joy. 

“Come, let us go now,” said Martha, taking 
her daughter by the arm; “let us leave this house 
of hateful memories; liberty, air and security are 
necessary for our joy.” 

But the Countess, who had been plunged in 
grief, was much frightened at hearing these 
words. She fell on the ground and dragging 
herself to Laura’s feet sobbed through her tears. 
“ Have pity on my misery! Mercy, mercy, for 
a poor woman. Do what you will; take my 
fortune: I will be poor, I will repent, but do not 
deliver me up to justice. I will obey you like 
a slave, only save me from prison, Helen. 
Laura, see me at your feet: do not refuse my 
prayer, have pity on me?” 


144 


THE STOLEN CHILD. 


Matthew, seeing the Countess at the young 
girl’s feet, threw himself before Martha, pleading 
for mercy. He did not utter a word of reproach, 
knowing the mother’s love had caused her to act 
as she had done; but he recalled his love for her, 
this sentiment to which she owed her child’s 
freedom; he begged she would not be revenged 
on him who had thus contributed to her happi- 
ness. 

This supplication was so humble that Martha 
was touched, and seemed undecided, when her 
daughter turned to her with clasped hands, say- 
ing: 

“Oh! mother, mother, have mercy on Madame 
de Bruinsteen — forgive her!” 

“I wish to forget all, my child. The misery of 
madame and Matthew will not add to my happi- 
ness, but I know not what to do.” 

“Hear me,” interrupted the notary; “they 
seem to be repentant. We can without doubt save 
them from the law, and even insure them their 
personal possessions. They can leave the coun- 
try to-day: if they will accept my proposition and 
give their signatures to that effect, I will assist 
them. Here Martha, take this proof — guard it 
well. I will attend to everything and be with 
you at noon.” 

Martha took the girl’s hand and led her to the 
carriage. The widow exclaimed joyfully upon 
seeing Catharine standing by and said: 

“Now, my child, this is the one who has re- 


THK STOLEN CHILD. 


145 


stored you to your mother, and given us both so 
much happiness. She has a noble heart.” They 
both embraced her, at which the old vivandiere 
was so aflfected that great tears streamed down 
her cheeks. 

‘‘Catharine, dear Catharine, come with us; 
your husband is awaiting our return. We will 
have a fete, and you must be by my side. Your 
future is assured; my son has a good heart, he 
will not forget you. Your husband will be our 
steward, and you will always remain near me, 
and be my faithful companion and friend.” 

Catharine was stupefied with joy and surprise. 
She resisted the sweet violence of Martha, and 
refused the gifts showered upon her. Frederick 
lifted her into the carriage, she knew not how; 
the coachman cracked his whip, and they dis- 
appeared behind the angle of the wood in a 
cloud of dust. 






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3 


THE SORCERER. 


BY 

HENDRIK CONSCIENCE. 


franslateir from #riginal dUmbl^. 


BALTIMORE: 

JOHN MURPHY & CO. 
1892 . 


COPRRIGHT, 1892. 

By John Murphy & Co. 


“THE SORCERER.” 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE BOROUGH OF ISERSTEEN. 

How many years, indeed centuries, have 
passed since the facts which I am about to relate 
to you transpired, I dare not say. Centuries of 
forests have disappeared in the interim, popu- 
lous towns, impregnable fortresses have become 
ruins, and the soil of Flanders transformed by 
the vicissitudes of time and fortune. 

In the most fertile part of Isergan rose the' 
towers of the beautiful fortress of Isersteen. 
It was not an eagle’s nest, with a ferocious Eord 
of the manor, inspiring terror in the hearts of 
the people. On the contrary, Isersteen seemed 
to smile on the traveler and offer him cordial 
hospitality. In truth, this borough was sur- 
rounded, as was the custom, by a stone wall. 
The battlements, loop holes and arches gave 
evidence that some one was always on the look- 
out for the safety of the Eord, but the draw- 
bridge was lowered, the door open, and men 
armed with their cross-bows or their halberds 

3 


4 “the sorcerer.” 

walked on the ramparts with an indifferent, but 
none the less threatening air. 

If one would climb one of the high towers as- 
cending from the four corners of the castle, the 
view extending over an immense territory would 
be superb. The fields seemed as though covered 
with an immense green velvet carpet sprinkled 
with golden buds, white marguerites and a thou- 
sand wild flowers. 

There between the two shores, surrounded 
with trembling rushes, flowed the river Iser, so 
peaceful, like a silver ribbon winding through 
the green meadows. Above all, one saw at pas- 
ture in the meadows splendid cattle, spotted 
cows and innumerable flocks of sheep ; and 
heard the singing of the birds, mingled with the 
happy voices of the shepherds and peasants. 

Count Foucard van Isersteen, Lord of the 
borough, was a man of imposing carriage. He 
was tall, well formed, somewhat coarse in ap- 
pearance. One would almost tremble at his 
severe countenance if from time to time a sweet 
smile did not appear, to soften his expression. 
Being passionately fond of hunting, and all that 
would exercise and strengthen his muscles, jeal- 
ous of his authority, punctilious of his honor, he 
was an enemy to violence and scrupulously just. 

His wife, a noble lady, who in her youth had 
been a noted beauty, had, no doubt, by the ex- 
treme sweetness of her disposition, softened the 
natural severity of her husband. Her only pleas- 


THE SORCERER.” 


5 


(( 

ure was in her home life, entertaining her hus- 
band’s guests, especially minstrels and trouba- 
dours. She could listen an entire evening to 
tales of chivalry, ballads and love songs. 

At the time of our story the young heir of 
Isersteen, Wilfred, had almost attained his twen- 
tieth year. 

As the parents had lavished all their love and 
hopes on this, their only child, it was not sur- 
prising that Wilfred united all the heroic 
strength of his father with the gentle grace of 
his mother. The character of each could readily 
be recognized in him. If the father had prac- 
tised in him the use of arms and exercises of the 
body, and had instilled in him a love of hunting 
and chivalrous sports, in like manner his mother 
had encouraged the more quiet pleasures. Sing- 
ing was a favorite amusement ; and in the long 
twilight he would sing and relate stories so well 
that he had been dubbed “The Troubadour.” 

Wilfred returned his parents’ love with an in- 
tense devotion; his love for his mother was most 
perfect in its entirety. Formerly the Countess 
had never betrayed the slightest nervousness 
whilst her son was hunting, were he alone or 
with his father — so he spent his evenings with 
her, she was content; but now, on the contrary, 
each time there was a meet or a tournament in 
the neighboring borough, the Countess seemed 
anxious and a prey to some mysterious disquiet- 
ude. 


6 


“the sorcerer.” 

Many times, in order to satisfy her, he re- 
mained at home several days, but his restlessness 
overcame him, and he entreated his mother to 
give him some reason for her strange caprice. 

“Ah! my dear Wilfred,” she replied, “your 
mother’s heart is annoyed by a secret sorrow. 
How to explain it I know not, but I have the 
feeling that a great danger threatens you. At 
night I awake with a start, having the most 
frightful dreams; I see only blood, and unknown 
voices cry out to me: Watch, watch over your 
child. A cruel fate seems suspended over your 
head . . . And these voices follow me during the 
day, making me nervous and depressed. Be 
kind and indulgent to your poor mother. She 
seems to dread some terrible misfortune will hap- 
pen to you either at the hunt or in the tourna- 
ment. Perhaps her fears are unfounded, but 
they render her seriously unhappy. Wilfred, my 
dear son, I beg you remain a few days longer 
with me.” 

Although the young man considered her fears 
as absurd, he quietly submitted to her wishes. 

After a week passed in the castle, he remarked 
that her fears seemed rather to increase than to 
diminish, at which he became so nervous that he 
felt compelled to ask several days of freedom. 

His mother held firm as long as possible, and 
hoped to keep him with her, but one morning 
the master of hounds rushed to him. 

“To horse, quickly, kord Wilfred. A splen- 


THE SORCERER. 


7 


u 


n 


did hunt is before us. Yesterday we started, in 
the forest of Ever, a stag with antlers so immense 
that I am quite sure the like has never been seen 
in Flanders.” 

Wilfred jumped, and clapped his hands as if 
he had a magic wand. He trembled with joy, 
and his eyes sparkled with delight 

“And what is most extraordinary,” added the 
huntsman, “the coat of the animal is marked 
with great white spots. We have tracked him, 
and know just where he will attempt to return 
to his lair. The Count, your father, for whom 
we had reserved the honor of so uncommon a 
capture, is indisposed, and cannot follow.” 

Wilfred, carried away with enthusiasm, fell 
on his mother’s neck and passionately implored 
her consent, so that, in spite of her fears and 
distress, the Countess van Isersteen knew that 
she could no longer keep her son at her side. 

“Go, Wilfred,” said she, with tears in her 
eyes, “May God guide you, is my earnest 
prayer. ’ ’ 


8 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


)) 


CHAPTER II. 

THE HUNT. 

The young man uttered a cry of triumph. 

“Bravo, bravo,” he cried, “Let them saddle 
Ouragan, unloose the dogs. Come, come, a 
middle-aged stag!” 

He embraced his mother, went to his father’s 
room to press him once more in his arms, and 
hastily descended into the court-yard, where he 
heard the whinnying of his valiant courser, 
amidst the barking of the dogs, and the horns 
calling them to start. 

He jumped in the saddle, put spurs to his 
horse and galloped to the gate, calling: “Fol- 
low me 1 To the forest of Ever. Forward, for- 
ward ! ’ ’ 

He passed the bridge quick as lightning, 
rushed across the meadows, followed by a dozen 
huntsmen and a fiery pack of hounds, whose 
furious barking re-echoed across the plains. 

Wilfred was happy ; he smiled, drew a deep 
breath, and mingled his cries of joy with the 
frenzied barking of the bloodhounds. 

After half an hour of this foolish career they 
neared the border of the wood. The young man 
was constrained, in spite of himself, to slacken 


THE SORCERER. 


9 


(( 


n 


his speed, for he knew not in what direction to 
look for the covert of the stag. He made two 
huntsmen precede him to show him the road, 
whilst his heart beat quickly. 

After going slowly through a compact wood 
of old trees, they reached an opening surrounded 
by undergrowth. 

The hue and cry were heard from all quarters, 
the horses flinched at the spurs in their sides, 
the dogs barked, the hunters stood in their 
stirrups, leaned over their horses’ necks, and flew 
like the wind in the tracks of the stag. The 
frightened animal came from the forest a few 
steps from them and hastened to reach the 
clearing. 

The intoxicating passion which possessed the 
young Count van Isersteen to follow the stag 
cannot be described. His horse seemed to share 
the same mad passion, and required neither 
voice nor spur ; he struck the air like a storm- 
cloud, his feet scarcely seemed to touch the 
earth. 

Soon it became impossible for the dogs and 
most of the huntsmen to follow the young 
man ; they remained behind, exhausted and dis- 
couraged. . - . And when the most persevering 
was obliged to give in, he murmured : 

“God forgive me! It is not natural. Sir 
Wilfred is bewitched : The evil spirit leads 
him.” 

But the young Count thought but little of his 


lO “the sorcerer.” 

followers. His burning eye was fixed on the 
stag with the white spots and the gigantic 
antlers; his sole hope was to obtain them. Soon 
he gained on the animal, and was already con- 
gratulating himself, but with one bound the 
stag cleared a distance that seemed almost super- 
natural. 

Had Sir Wilfred not been blinded by passion, 
he would probably have asked himself if he were 
not the victim of an illusion, for the stag seemed 
to mislead him with calculation. But he was 
not himself : although his horse kept ahead of 
the others, Wilfred pushed him further, drawing 
blood with his spurs, and attempting the im- 
possible. 

He galloped thus, without looking back, leav- 
ing behind him mountains and valleys, dikes 
and ditches, copse and wood, until the perspira- 
tion rolled down his forehead, and his reeking 
horse was covered with a white foam. 

This furious run lasted a long, long time. He 
had gone more than ten leagues, when he 
reached an unknown country whose soil seemed 
thrown up by an earthquake, and where every- 
thing bore traces of frightful destruction. At 
the farther end of a rugged plain the path the 
stag had evidently followed, he noticed from 
afar what seemed to be a mountain of rocks. 
But soon things took shape, as he neared the 
spot, and he recognized that what he had first 
thought a mountain was in reality the ruins of an 


THK SORCKRER. 


II 


( ( 




old castle. From the midst of the heaped-up 
rubbish, here and there one could see the stones 
of the battlements, and indeed on one side a half 
crumbled tower, the lower part not entirely gone. 
The place was completely in ruins. Weeds were 
growing everywhere, their creeping vines stretch- 
ing even to the top of the tower. 

Wilfred had only glanced at these walls. For 
some time he had seemed to be gaining on the 
stag: bursting with hope, he cruelly lashed his 
steed. The animal, roaring with rage, cut the 
air with such velocity that the young cavalier 
could scarcely breathe. . . . The stag was only 
a hundred steps from him; he tottered and 
seemed to lose all strength. Wilfred reached 
over to strike him. . . . 

But, oh! heaven! The animal, drawing near 
the enclosure of the old castle, suddenly disap- 
peared, as if the earth had swallowed him. 

Stupefied and bewildered, Wilfred stopped his 
horse and rested. Finally he perceived that 
where the stag had disappeared was an immense 
opening, that seemed to extend under the earth. 
It was an opening into the vault of the old castle, 
which had without doubt here and there given 
way, for in the distance one could plainly see 
daylight. The certainty that the hunted stag 
had sought refuge in this cave, kindled anew his 
desire, and brought a smile of triumph to his 
lips. 

He fastened his horse to a tree, in good 


12 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


)) 


pasture. Determined and full of hope he pene- 
trated into the vault. First he walked through 
the rubbish, stumbling more than once over im- 
mense stones, or slipping on the wet clay; soon, 
however, he remarked that on one side was a 
path beaten down by the steps of man. Was the 
old castle then inhabited, or was it a chance vis- 
itor like himself who had left these footprints? 

Nevertheless these thoughts did not stop him: 
he remarked at the same time the prints of the 
stag’s hoofs, and that of itself increased his de- 
sire to follow his prey. 

About the middle of the vault, he came to a 
half-ruined stone stairway, which no doubt led 
to the remaining tower. He saw no other outlet, 
and felt he must either climb the steps or aban- 
don the pursuit. 


13 


“thk sorcerer.” 


CHAPTER HI. 

“the sorcerer nyctos.” 

He had scarcely gotten beyond the arch when 
he was perfectly dumbfounded to find himself in 
a large open room. All that he saw seemed in- 
explicable to him. On the cracked walls of the 
room, on the large shelves, and here and there 
on the floor, were scattered a number of strange 
things, the most of which were unknown to 
him — pictures representing the sun, moon, and 
stars, skeletons, old worn-out books, stoves, pots, 
phials, shoes, little wax figures, all in the great- 
est disorder, soiled, broken, and covered with 
dust and cobwebs. 

But what claimed his attention most, after 
glancing around, was the figure of a man seated 
in the middle of the room. He was bending 
over a large book which rested on his knees, and 
seemed completely absorbed in what he was 
reading. 

This statue, for so Wilfred considered it, rep- 
resented an old man with hair as white as silver 
and a long grey beard. If the artist had put on 
the forehead and cheeks a little flesh-tint one 
would have thought the statue living, but the 
yellow tint of the wrinkled skin indicated clearly 
that there was no blood in the veins. 


14 “thk sorcerkr.’’ 

The young man should have considered never- 
theless that this statue was an admirable imita- 
tion of nature. 

Prompted by curiosity he went nearer the 
figure . . . but stepped back, stupefied, when 
he saw it turn the leaves of the book. 

It was a living figure. It was still bent over 
the book as if profoundly absorbed in reading, 
and having no suspicion of the presence of a 
stranger. 

After a moment’s hesitation and silence, Wil- 
fred raised his voice and said: 

“Peace be to you, worthy man! Rushing in 
pursuit of a stag I have penetrated” . . . 

“Blessed be those whose holy names I am un- 
worthy to pronounce! Oh, Sir Chevalier, your 
arrival is an inexpressible happiness to me. ”... 

“You know me,” stammered the young man 
astonished. “ It seems to me that I have never 
seen you.” 

“Nor I you, sir. I have never seen you, and 
yet I know you better than you know yourself. 
You are Sir Wilfred, the only son of Foucard, 
Count d’Isersteen and Judith de Fleurichamp, 
his wife.” 

“Indeed, yes; but why does my arrival make 
you so happy?” 

At this question the old man appeared 
troubled, and shook his head hesitatingly. 

“Is it a secret?” asked Wilfred, more and 
more surprised. 


THE SORCERER.” 


15 


(( 


“A secret!” cried the old man. “Ah! yes, a 
secret so terrible, so awful, that my lips would 
refuse to reveal it, if your life did not depend on 
the revelation. Alas, poor unfortunate cavalier! 
I am going to plunge you into despair, freeze you 
with horror, break your heart with agony, and 
perhaps make you rue the hour of your birth 
. . . But I owe it to you — I must speak, if only 
out of pity, for your sad fate makes me shed 
tears of blood. ’ ’ After finishing these words, the 
old man sank back on his seat and commenced 
to sob. 

Wilfred knew neither what to believe nor what 
to think. Was the man crazy? What foundation 
was there for the dark predictions which he had 
just presented to him? He, however, knew his 
father and mother. What could be the fate that 
menaced him ? He compassionately contem- 
plated the old man, bathed in tears, who finally 
ceased sobbing, and pointing to a wooden bench, 
said: 

“Will you sit down, sir knight? What I have 
to say to you is so horrible, and apparently so im- 
probable, that I tremble with fear that you may 
not believe me . . . Nevertheless, you ought 
and must trust me, otherwise you will cause your 
father and mother a violent death, and you will 
be a prey to shame and despair, for you will 
pierce their hearts with your own hand . . . 
But I hope that the Sovereign Arbitrator will 
hear your mother’s prayers . . . §ee her now, 


i6 “thk sorcerer.’’ 

kneeling in the chapel d’Isersteen, with hands 
raised to heaven.” 

The young Count looked in the direction in- 
dicated by the old man, but his eye only saw 
the gray walls of the cave. 

“I understand,” he said, “you see my mother 
ill spirit?” 

“No, sir, I see her in reality.” 

“Does my mother then know the danger 
which threatens me?” asked Wilfred, in great 
surprise. 

“She does not know it: she is only greatly 
worried by a vague fear which I have awakened 
in her, so that her prayers will assist me in your 
deliverance. Were not her last words to you 
this morning that she would pray for you?” 

“You can hear in this cave what is said at 
Isersteen?” cried the young man. “Who are 
you then?” 

“Your father mentioned my name to you to- 
day,” answered the old man. “When you left 
this morning, did he not say to you in a doubt- 
ful way. ‘The spotted stag? I remember now, I 
have heard it spoken. It is the watch-dog of 
Nyctos, the sorcerer. Remain at home, Wil- 
fred; no one can catch the beast.’ You did not 
listen to your father’s advice. On the contrary, 
his words excited you more, and I tried to in- 
flame your passion to blindness and frenzy, so as 
to lead you here, and reveal to you myself this 
frightful truth.” 


THE SORCERER. 


17 


li 


)) 


“A sorcerer? You are Nyctos, the sorcerer?” 
sighed Wilfred. ‘ ‘ And you are interested in me ? 
Why? What is there in common between us?” 

“Ah, I wish to save you and your parents, 
the innocent victims of an enchantment, but 
that is not all ; on your deliverance depends the 
salvation or eternal damnation of a soul as dear 
to me as my mother’s. To-day I am Nyctos, 
the sorcerer . . . to-morrow, if you listen to my 
advice, I will break with occult sciences and my 
culpable life . . . and will the rest of my days 
be a martyr. I will accept the expiation, so as 
to be nearer to Him whose name I am unworthy 
to mention.” 

“Well, speak!” murmured the young Count 
impatiently. “Clearly explain to me what I 
have to fear.” 

“You will believe me. Sir Chevalier?” 

‘ ‘ I am so disposed ; do you not know the most 
hidden things?” 

“Oh! I beg of you, do not hesitate to do so, or 
else, as I said before, you and your parents will 
be condemned to the most frightful death.” 

“Speak, I will believe you.” 

The old man kept silence for a few minutes as 
if to collect his thoughts, and commenced his 
revelations in these words. 


i8 


THE SORCERER/ 


u 




CHAPTER IV. 

“the sorcerer’s secret.” 

Four hours walk from here, near the sea, lies 
a castle inhabited for the past thirty years by 
Sir Ingelram de Fleurichamp. 

This chivalrous warrior had a most beautiful 
daughter, gentle as a dove, and gifted by the 
Creator with every attraction of mind and body. 
Judith de Fleurichamp is now your mother, my 
Lord; she was then a young girl sought after by 
all the cavaliers of that country. Among those 
who had pretensions to her hand was a certain 
Evermar de Wolhout. He was a man with 
neither strength nor courage. The beautiful 
Judith, who did not love him, repelled his ad- 
vances, and chose for her husband the handsome 
Foucard van Isersteen. 

“Furious with jealousy and shame, Evermar 
vowed vengeance but was too weak to wrestle 
against the valiant Foucard, and too cowardly 
even to attack him. For months he made him- 
self miserable, and every one believed that his 
heart would break. Finally he went to an as- 
trologer, a friend of mine, hoping that he would 
give him some magical means of satisfying his 
vindictive hatred. The astrologer, whose name 


THE SORCERER. 


19 


u 


)) 


I cannot give, had interested himself only in 
studying the stars and seeking the philosopher’s 
stone ; but dazzled by the brilliant offer of Sir 
Bvermar, he allowed himself to descend to the 
black arts and necromancy. An ordinary ven- 
geance would not satisy the passionate hatred of 
Bvermar. The death of Sir Foiicard van Iser- 
steen, his wife, and even their unborn child, 
would not satisfy him : their torture must be a 
masterpiece of cruelty ... By ’what researches 
and mysterious inspiration of his black soul he 
conceived the infernal scheme he afterwards 
carried out, would take too long at present to 
relate. Be satisfied to know. Sir Wilfred, that 
before you were born he had resolved that as 
soon as your arm was strong enough to carry a 
sword, both father and mother should perish by 
a blow from your hand.” 

‘‘Oh ! God in heaven, what do I hear!” cried 
the young knight, trembling with fright. “But 
they have not done so.” 

“They have not,” replied the old man, shak- 
ing his head. “For many years have I sought 
the means to fight against their sorcery and to 
break the enchantment. Alas! I have not been 
able to preventjt.” 

“Ah! I also will avenge myself,” muttered 
Wilfred, shaking his clenched fist. “Where 
does this cowardly traitor, Bvermar, live?” 

“The Supreme Judge has already punished 
him. He was torn to pieces at a hunt by his 


20 “the sorcerer.” 

own dogs, and his body left to the birds of the 
air.” 

“And the treacherous sorcerer? I will com- 
pel him with my sword at his throat to withdraw 
the curse he has put upon me.” 

“He could not do it.” 

“He could not? Well, at least I will satisfy 
my revenge by taking his life.” 

“He is ... he also is dead,” stammered the 
sorcerer. 

Wilfred uttered a harsh cry and let his head 
fall on his breast. 

“All hope is not lost. Sir Knight,” said the 
old man. “What I am doing, what I have done 
every day, is to make a supreme effort to save 
you. Listen to what I have still to tell you. 
You must understand what you can do to over- 
come their witchcraft. Listen with attention. 
The Fates took possession of you during the 
short space of time between your birth and the 
moment when the regenerating water of baptism 
fell on your head. At that time, on a dark and 
stormy night, Bvermar sought the astrologer, to 
learn from him the time of your birth ; he was 
not at home, and more than five hours passed 
before their incantations commenced. Bach 
quarter of an hour of this spell represented a 
year. Thus twenty years of your life was already 
lost to the vengeance of Bvermar, but from your 
twentieth year to the end of your days the curse 
would follow you — at least so thought your ene- 
mies. Nevertheless they were mistaken. 


THE SORCERER. 


21 


u 


>) 


“A few hours after your birth you were seized 
with the most violent convulsions, and fearing 
you would die, they baptized you immediately, 
that is to say, just one hour and fifteen minutes 
after the sorcerer had commenced his incanta- 
tions over you. 

“The result is that the spell is on you only 
for five years. To-day they celebrate the feast 
of the Holy Corneille. To-morrow, at break of 
day, you will reach your twentieth year, and will 
become a slave to your cruel fate until the day 
you reach your twenty-sixth year. If you could 
remain so long without going near your parents, 
then, only then, we could hope to keep your 
hands from shedding their blood.” 

“Not see my mother, nor my father, for five 
years!” murmured Wilfred, with despair. 

“ Tisten well, and imprint my words on your 
mind as if they were engraven there with red-hot 
iron,” said the old man; “if you go near your 
parents before the expiration of the five years, a 
blind passion will take immediate hold of you, 
and without knowing what you do, you will 
take their lives. You must flee, flee far from 
here, before you risk the danger of meeting your 
parents.” 

“Ah, what a terrible fate,” groaned Wilfred, 
running his fingers through his hair. “If it is 
for love of my mother, I will submit . . . But 
what will become of my parents? When I do 
not return, will they not be overcome by grief? 


22 


THE SORCERER. 


u 


n 


thinking I have met with an accident in hunt- 
ing.” 

“They will suffer less than you.” 

“Ah! you do not know my mother. But I 
will send a messenger to reassure her. ’ ’ 

“For your life, do not attempt that, my 
Lord!” cried the old man. “You would bring 
death to them and to yourself. Rest assured 
they would endeavor to discover your hiding 
place, they would seek you through the entire 
world . . . and perhaps would find you, only to 
die by your hand; for you must not forget that 
the power of the spell hangs over them as over 
you, and is working to bring you together.” 

“Alas, alas! What can I do?” sighed the 
terrified young man. 

“I repeat, fly, fly immediately as far as pos- 
sible, beyond mountains and rivers, without at- 
tempting to know anything of your parents. 
Your deliverance is doubtful; in any case, the 
sole chance to avert the fate that menaces you, 
is to follow strictly my counsel.” 

Wilfred, completely overcome, wept bitterly. 

“ Have courage, my Lord,” said the old man, 
deeply moved; “if you struggle against fate 
with all your strength of will, there is reason to 
hope you will reach your twenty-sixth year with- 
out the fatal accident. But mark what I say to 
you; the nearer you approach to your deliver- 
ance, the more threatening the danger becomes 
for you. The last month, if you avoid the trial 


THE SORCERER. 


23 


( i 


>) 


until then, the last month, the last day, indeed 
the last hour, will be the most trying. If you 
do not follow my counsel, if your resolution 
wavers for a moment, then you are lost. . . . 
And by your imprudent love, you will kill your 
parents, your poor mother whom you love so 
tenderly. ’ ’ 

“I will follow your directions, I will fly,” 
said the young Count in a stifled voice, “but let 
me breathe a little. The blow is so cruel I feel 
my heart will break.” 

“Thanks, young man,” said the sorcerer. 
“Ah! I well knew it would not be in vain I 
would appeal to your courage. I also am going 
to depart — I am going far, far away, farther than 
you, to Rome and Jerusalem — and in weeping 
over the Holy Sepulchre I will pray that your 
soul may not be held by these impious artifices.” 

The old man was silent a moment, then sud- 
denly burst forth. 

“Hasten, Sir Wilfred, to depart. A half a 
league from here I see a cloud of dust on the 
plain. Your servants, your dogs, are on your 
track. They gallop . . . quick, quick, to horse, 
and do not return; you must not meet any one 
who knows you.” 

The young man groaned aloud, rose from his 
bench and slowly went towards the stairway, 
whilst he uttered a mute adieu. The old man 
followed him and whispered in a deep and 
threatening tone. 


24 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


n 


“Wilfred van Isersteen, would you kill your 
mother with your own hands? Does not your 
love give you strength when courage alone can 
avert the bloody catastrophe? Go, remain thus, 
cowardly and irresolute, and rush to meet your 
horrible fate! ”... 

These words were like a thunder-clap to the 
young man. In three bounds he was at the top 
of the stairway. He quickly seized his horse’s 
bridle, jumped into the saddle, and putting spurs 
to his horse, was soon lost to view. 


THE SORCERER. 


25 


(( 


n 


CHAPTER V. 

FRIGHT. 

Without Wilfred perceiving it, his horse in- 
sensibly slackened his pace. He was so lost 
in his stormy thoughts that it seemed as if he 
was weighed down by a heavy cloud. 

Cursed from his birth! To kill his parents 
with his own hands! To shed his cherished 
mother’s blood! 

Was such a thing possible? Was he not 
rather the plaything of a frightful dream? Or 
had Nyctos, the sorcerer, chosen to mislead him 
by a vain hallucination? Should he leave, 
frightened by a false conjecture, fly from his 
country, and let them believe that he had been 
devoured by wild beasts? Would not his poor 
mother suffer from such a blow? Oh! if he 
could only clasp her once more in his arms! 
But to leave her without saying good-bye, with 
the fear of her sinking under her grief! What 
had he done to deserve such a fate? 

Whilst he abandoned himself to these dark 
reveries, and drying from time to time his eyes, 
still red from weeping, his horse had twice taken 
a side road and gone in the direction of Isersteen. 

Wilfred did not know that the animal, ruled 


26 ‘‘the sorcerer.” 

by a mysterious power, had changed his course. 
Great tears rolled from his eyes. The lamenta- 
tions of his mother tore his heart; his imagina- 
tion painted his father wringing his hands in 
despair. He heard his name called, as if in 
distress, through the woods and fields. . . 

But the sound of the horn and the deafening 
cry of the hounds soon recalled him from his 
sad visions. . . 

Straight ahead of him the sun was setting in 
the horizon; he was then traveling westward, 
towards Isersteen. Tike a somnambulist rudely 
awakened he recovered his senses. . . The curse 
then secretly affected the horse as well as him- 
self. 

When he had thought of discrediting the 
curse, and returning to his mother, the animal 
had acted under the same influence! . . . Never- 
theless God in his mercy had not abandoned 
him! There was yet time to fly, but not an in- 
stant to lose, because the hunter whose horn he 
had heard might be one of his father’s servants. 

These ideas had chased through Wilfred’s 
mind with the rapidity of lightning. He had 
already turned his horse, and after rudely chas- 
tising him, used his spurs and took the road to 
the east. 

He soon disappeaaed in the dark forest, which 
surrounded the country like a chain of black 
mountains. In hopes of eluding more easily the 
Isersteen people and avoiding all travellers, he 


THE SORCERER. 


27 


C( 


)) 


left the road and forced his horse to make a path 
for himself through the thick branches and 
shrubbery. Finally he dismounted and led his 
horse for more than an hour. 

Night began to fall under; the thickly arched 
trees it was already so dark that Wilfred was 
obliged to stop and ask himself how he could 
pass the night in this wild solitude. Some 
minutes of daylight still remained, so he profited 
by them to discover a mossy place in which to 
rest his tired horse. 

He heard from afar, and then nearer, the 
howling of the wolves and, perhaps, the growl- 
ing of the bears. Would he be obliged to defend 
himself against these wild beasts? A simple 
hunting knife was the only weapon that he pos- 
sessed . . . The thought that he could climb a 
tree and remain there until daylight gave him a 
sense of security — but his horse! without doubt, 
the poor beast would be torn to pieces if left to 
his melancholy fate. 

Fortunately, Wilfred,* like all good hunters, 
carried in his pocket a flint, a piece of steel and 
some tinder, and knew that a burning fire would 
drive away all wild beasts. 

So with feverish activity he picked up a few 
dry leaves and broken branches. For a long 
time he tried to light a fire . . . Whilst he was 
angrily striking the flint, he could hear the 
howling of the wolves and the deep growls of the 
bears becoming more distinct; already he could 


28 “the sorcerer.” 

distinguish their footsteps through the forest 
when, O happiness! his fire was lighted, and 
there was a deep silence . . .The first danger 
was overcome, since wild beasts are only danger- 
ous in the darkness of night, and he now had 
time to take precautions to protect himself from 
their attacks. 

He immediately began to fence himself around 
with branches, and to collect dry wood. He 
made three fires, at short distances apart; — so 
that he had soon placed his horse and himself in 
a kind of burning fortress, the brightness of 
which kept away the animals. 

When he had accomplished this hard work, 
night was already advanced, and the forest re- 
sounded on all sides with the cries of beasts, 
seeking their prey. 

Wilfred seated himself near the middle fire, 
with his knife on his knees, ready to defend 
himself against all attacks. But, after waiting 
some time, convincing himself there was nothing 
to fear, he threw some fresh branches on the fires, 
and forgetting his immediate danger, thought 
only of his miserable fate and sad future. 

What was he going to do now? He must 
wander in strange countries; condemned for five 
years to a frightful exile, as he could have no 
news of his parents. He was then deprived of 
all consolation. How could he live? 

In his hurry to start for the hunt, he had for- 
gotten to put any silver in his purse. Neverthe- 


THE SORCERER. 


29 


(( 


n 


less, he could not beg-, nor could he offer his ser- 
vices to any nobleman, as he would be obliged 
to remain his own master, so as to wander from 
country to country, to avoid betraying his secret, 
and so remain unknown. 

At last, after long and painful reflections, a 
sad smile played about his lips, as he murmured 
to himself: 

“Troubadours and poets are welcomed every- 
where, and received with joy in all the boroughs 
and castles. Lords and ladies esteem it an honor 
to protect art and poetry, and frequently make 
handsome presents to those who have entertained 
them.” . . . 

“They have always flattered me until now, 
that I was a good troubadour; I know some, 
beautiful stories, and I am well versed in this 
pleasing art. It is an inspiration from heaven. 
I will become a troubadour. I will entertain 
knights and noble ladies with my songs, accom- 
panied by my lute, so I can wander all over the 
world without being in want.” 

He passed the night revolving this in his 
mind, and thinking over his future. The 
thought of his parents’ grief brought bitter tears 
to his eyes, and daybreak found him in the same 
place, plunged in thought. The night-birds 
had at last ceased their frightful concert, and 
sought their lairs. Then only did Wilfred dare 
to close his eyes. Overcome by a fatigue which 
was mental as well as physical, he fell into a 


30 


THE SORCERER. 






profound sleep, which, however, was heavy, and 
troubled by frightful dreams. 

The morning was well advanced when he 
awoke with a shudder, examining his hands to 
see if they were stained with blood. He had 
dreamed that in a passion of blind rage he had 
strangled his parents and thrown their mutilated 
bodies into the castle moat. 

He tried several times to drive away this 
frightful vision. Little by little he realized his 
position. 

As soon as he had bridled his horse he led him 
through the underwood, towards the northeast. 
His heart ached, he sighed frequently, and raised 
his sad eyes to heaven, as if to testify to his great 
misery. 

After pursuing for more than an hour this 
laborious path through the bushes, he saw an 
open road. Mounting his horse he spurred him 
on, and still more encouraged him by his voice, 
to hasten as much as possible his melancholy 
flight. 


THE SORCERER.” 


31 


u 


CHAPTER VI. 

“the wandering troubadour.” 

The sun had not attained more than half of 
its power, when Wilfred, leaving the forest, saw 
before him a vast plain, crossed by a beautiful 
river of limpid waters. 

He noticed in the distance a tall square tower 
which arose from the midst of a number of 
houses. This was without doubt a large city. 
He could perhaps find here all that was neces- 
sary to commence his life as a troubadour. 

On questioning the first person that he met, 
he found that the city was Harlebek, on the river 
Lys. 

It was not without fear and precaution that 
Wilfred approached this stronghold of the pow- 
erful Count of Flanders. If the Count was hold- 
ing court, the young man would, without doubt, 
meet some knights who had perhaps seen him 
in a tournament at Isersteen. Had he not better 
remain without the walls until twilight, so as 
not to be so easily recognized ? 

Acting on this idea he remained in the suburbs 
and stopped before the first respectable inn that 
he saw. 

After ordering a frugal meal and a bottle of 


32 “thk sorckrkr.” 

wine, he mentioned to the innkeeper that he 
wished to sell his horse. The innkeeper had 
admired the noble animal, tired as he was, and 
offered him a price far below his value, which 
Wilfred nevertheless accepted. 

That evening he entered the city, sold to a 
rich Lombard his handsome hunting-knife, his 
golden spurs, coat of mail, and all his other 
articles pertaining to chivalry, and bought at 
the same time some clothes more Suitable to the 
peaceful appearance of a troubadour, also a man- 
dolin or small harp, to accompany himself in 
singing. 

Then returning to his inn, he slept until the 
crowing of the cock, barking of the dogs, and 
passing on the streets, awoke him. 

He once more returned to the stables, caressed 
his horse and bade him good-bye, with tears in 
his eyes and a breaking heart. 

Without returning to the city, he crossed to 
the other side of the river in a small boat. The 
deed was done — the sacrifice made. Heaving a 
deep sigh and raising his eyes to heaven, he be- 
gan his wanderings around the world as a trou- 
badour. 

When he was received into a castle, and sang 
in a pure and touching voice his songs and bal- 
lads, he was always welcomed, and frequently 
pressed to remain several weeks. 

But knights and ladies did not always offer 
him the same hospitality, sometimes they even 


33 


“the sorcerer.’* 

rudely refused him entrance to the castle — the 
Ivord was absent, or they were indisposed for 
gaiety. These rude receptions wounded him so 
deeply, that whilst his money lasted he would 
always pass the night in some village inn. 

Finally, however, he was reduced to his last 
piece of silver. No matter what and how he felt, 
he was obliged to go from castle to castle, like 
other troubadours, singing and playing on his 
harp, to gain his bread . . . and whatever wel- 
come he received, or however little attention 
they paid him, even sending him away with 
empty hands, he was obliged to receive it all with 
good grace. 

Such humiliations to his proud soul, the per- 
petual fear of seeing the curse accomplished, the 
remembrance of his dear parents, and the 
thought of their mortal sorrow, saddened his 
brow and lessened his courage. 

He wandered thus for several months, with no 
other end but getting as far as possible from 
Isersteen and his parents, crossing countries 
nearly deserted, and remaining unknown to 
everybody. 

After passing several days in inhospitable cas- 
tles, where he had scarcely anything to eat, he 
entered a small city, hoping to be a little happier 
there. 

Indeed, they were celebrating the wedding of 
the Margravine van Arlen with the Chevalier 
van Wiltz, and they promised handsome presents 


2 


34 


THE SORCERER. 


( c 


n 


to all troubadours who could show imagination 
and skill. 

Although hesitating and full of fear, Wilfred 
presented himself at the feast. When his turn 
came he sang so beautiful a song in praise of 
ladies in general, and particularly the noble 
fiancee, that they honored him with praises and 
thanks. 

But at this moment an old knight arose from 
the table at the other end of the room, and 
studying the triumphant troubadour, his counte- 
nance betrayed a lively surprise. 

Imagine Wilfred’s terror in recognizing Lord 
van Hoogstade, a friend of his father’s. He 
became pale and trembled as the old Chevalier 
drew near him and reproached him bitterly. 

“What are you doing here? Ah! unhappy 
man! Do not look at me in astonishment; you 
are Wilfred van Isersteen!” 

“I, Wilfred van Isersteen,” stammered the 
young man, bowing his head. 

“What! Are you a perfectly heartless, un- 
grateful and unfeeling son?” continued the 
knight. “You here enjoying yourself at a 
feast, singing, praised, and made much of, whilst 
your parents believe you dead, and languish in 
the most bitter sorrow.” 

The troubadour’s eyes filled with great tears, 
but noticing that every one was looking at him 
he remembered his danger, and, conquering his 
emotions, answered in a low tone: 


35 


“the sorcerer.” 

“Yes, Lord van Hoogstade, I am Wilfred 
van Isersteen. What you see me doing now is 
to accomplish a vow, and\if I fail I must die. I 
will explain this terrible secret to you this eve- 
ning after the fete. I am to sleep at the castle. 
Do not let us interfere with these ceremonies. 
Say that you were mistaken; you shall know 
all.” 

The knight silently returned to his place, but 
seemed much worried. 

To those who questioned him, he answered 
that he believed he had recognized the trouba- 
dour, but was deceived by a remarkable resem- 
blance. 

From that moment it seemed to Wilfred that 
the ground burned his feet. What would he not 
have given to be miles away? But he saw that 
Lord Van Hoogstade kept his eyes fixed on him. 
He must then hide his fright and impatience, if 
he did not wish to be betrayed. 

Other troubadours then chanted their ballads 
and songs, after which the chatelaine gave orders 
for them all to be taken to a large room near the 
kitchen, and served with old wine and a good 
repast. 

Wilfred followed his companions without 
showing the least haste, for, as he left the room, 
he silently bowed to every one. 

The meal was served, and although Wilfred 
was hungry, he could not eat a mouthful. Fear 
made him feverish, and on his return to Flanders 


THE SORCERER. 


36 


n 


would not Lord van Hoogstade mention where 
he had met him? And had not Nyctos the sor- 
cerer said the curse would fall, if his parents 
were to receive news of him? Alas! alas! could 
this be true? Could he shed his own mother’s 
blood? 

He took a daring step: in spite of his trouble 
of mind, he pretended to feel a little indisposed, 
and to feel the need of fresh air. 

He went out, and for some minutes prom- 
enaded up and down with an indifferent air, each 
time drawing nearer the large door, which he 
found open, until finally he crossed the draw- 
bridge . . . He was free! because he suddenly 
found himself in the midst of a large park of 
trees and thick bushes. 

He suddenly changed his course, and disap- 
peared in the thick shade of the trees. If they 
noticed his disappearance, they would surely 
follow him, as Lord van Hoogstade would tell 
every one his name and the supposed wrongs of 
his unhappy parents. If he was captured, they 
would probably send him forcibly to Flanders 
. . . And then, O heaven! then he would be- 
come his parents’ murderer. 

Weighed down by these frightful thoughts, 
Wilfred pursued his way like some wild beast 
tracked by the hunter, seeking the woody paths 
and tearing his face and hands against the 
branches of the trees, perspiring, panting, and 
blowing, until finally his strength being ex- 


“thk sorcerer.” 37 

hausted, he took refuge in a cave, where he fell, 
more than half dead. 

When he awoke, after sleeping several hours, 
he saw the moon, then full, shedding its white 
light on the trees and woods. He started again, 
not knowing where he was nor in which direction 
his steps were leading him; he only hoped that 
he was going far from the fatal castle where the 
old lyord had recognized him, and that they 
would not be able to follow him. Indeed, he 
had not seen nor followed a regular path, and 
had passed neither castle nor cabin. He now 
found himself in a flat and sterile country; there 
were no signs of cultivation, the land was inter- 
sected here and there by rocky ravines through 
which flowed streams or rivers. 

During his nocturnal walk he had noticed 
wolves’ eyes glaring in the moonlight, but that 
did not disturb him, knowing that these animals 
are cowardly and weak when alone, particularly 
in summer, and that the slighest noise would 
put them to flight; he had only to touch the 
harp strings, to rid himself of these unpleasant 
travelling companions. In the morning he met 
a band of falcon-hunters, who made him sing 
them several songs, and gave him some bread 
and roasted lamb to eat. He slept for several 
hours and then commenced anew his painful 
journey through this abandoned and deserted 
country. 

Towards evening he noticed a little hut in a 


THE SORCERER. 


38 


u 




cleft alongside a torrent, and as there was smoke 
coming from the chimney, he knew he would 
find some human beings. 

He descended from rock to rock in a steep 
gorge, and found an old man and old woman 
working in a little kitchen garden, which they 
had made beside the torrent. 

“Good people,” said he, “I am an unfortu- 
nate traveller, a poor troubadour lost in this wild 
country. For the love of God, be merciful to 
me. I am dying of fatigue and hunger. Allow 
me to rest, and give me something to eat, and 
I will repay you by giving you the only valuable 
thing which I possess.” 

At these words, he drew from his pocket a 
knife, the handle of which was of silver, chased 
with gold, and held it towards the old man. 

He and his wife regarded it with astonishment 
and curiosity; the man examined particularly 
the emblems engraved on the handle. 

“Three falcons of gold on a field of azure?” 
murmured he, “you are then a noble knight, 
my Lord?” 

This question made Wilfred fear. He could 
scarcely hide his agitation in answering: 

“No, this knife was given me by a knight, 
and I offer it to you now, in exchange for a little 
bread.” 

“It seems to me that I have seen this coat of 
arms,” said the man, knitting his brows, whilst 
Wilfred grew pale with anxiety, watching him. 


‘‘THK sorce:re:r.” 


39 


‘‘Yes, I remember: it was at Iville, in Flanders. 
It was more than thirty years ago. A knight 
bearing the three golden falcons on his shield, 
bore away the prize in tournament. I was then 
a servant and valet-at-arms of the noble Count 
de Chilly . . . Wait a minute . . . What did 
my master call the victor of the tournament? 
Ah ! I have it: his name was Foucard van Iser- 
steen. Do you know him?” 

Wilfred muttered an unintelligible reply. 

“You are pale, my Ford!” cried the man. 
Why do my words make you tremble?” 

“Ah! it. is grief for the dead!” stammered the 
young man. “Sir Foucard van Isersteen was my 
generous patron . . , He died before my eyes 
from an accident whilst hunting.” 

“Why weep? Are we not all obliged to pay 
that great debt^? . . Here, take back your 
knife — I do not want it. The little that I have 
I will cheerfully divide with you. Enter my 
house and accept my humble hospitality.” 

They immediately served him with some 
bread, a kind of gruel, and then some cheese, as 
the poor always own a goat. He devoured this 
miserable repast with a tremendous appetite; 
his eyes brightened with pleasure, and he 
thanked his host effusively. But the abundant 
nourishment which he had just taken affected 
him so, that it made him heavy, and his eyes 
soon closed from sleep. 

The old people took him into another room, 


40 “the sorcerer.” 

and gave him their own bed, inviting him to 
rest on it. Wilfred threw himself on it half 
dressed, and slept, not waking until after sun- 
rise. 

How happy he would be if he could only re- 
main in this hut! But his father’s name had 
been spoken there; the man would become sus- 
picious, ask questions, and probably discover his 
secret. The whip of his unrelenting fate again 
chased him away, and notwithstanding the old 
people’s persuasions to remain, he wished to 
continue his journey. 

He asked which direction he should take to 
traverse the most deserted part of the country. 
They told him the north. He again pressed his 
hosts’ hands in expressing to them his great 
gratitude, slung his lyre across his shoulder, and 
climbed the ravine in order to regain the plain. 

The first thing that he did, on finding himself 
alone, was to erase the crest from the handle of 
his knife, by rubbing it with a piece of stone, 
and thus efface the last trace of his birth. He 
reflected on what had happened to him during 
the last two days, and concluded that a myster- 
ious power led and prompted him to go to places 
where his secret could be betrayed. But he re- 
membered at the same time, thank heaven! that 
another power had sustained and protected him 
so far against the influence of the curse. He 
started again on his sorrowful journey, a little 
more encouraged, and kept on without interrup- 


THE SORCERER. 


41 


u 


n 


tion until night, and found lodgings in a cabin 
belonging to some charcoal-burners. 

Towards the close of the second day, feeling 
very much fatigued, he felt the desire to procure 
a little better nourishment than that of the 
country people. 

There suddenly arose before him against a 
steep rock the towers and walls of a fortified 
castle, which had been hidden from his view by 
the hills. 

A river flowed at the base of the castle, and on 
its banks were some rustic houses, showing their 
stubble roofs and clay walls. 

At this sight, Wilfred was encouraged to try 
his success as a troubadour. In this fortress, 
perched like an eagle’s nest on the top of a rock, 
in a wild country, he would not run the risk of 
meeting men who would recognize him. Per- 
haps the Lord of the castle, if he was hospitable 
and charitable, would not only give hpn a sub- 
stantial repast, but several days’ refuge. . . . 
But if on the contrary he found humilation and 
disdain ? . . .In any case he would risk noth- 
ing by trying. To support any longer so miser- 
able a life, seemed impossible. 


42 


“the sorcerer.” 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE CASTLE OF ROTSBURG. 

In collecting his thoughts he drew near the 
large causeway cut in the rock, which by a cir- 
cuitous way led to the castle. Whilst hesitat- 
ing, not knowing whether to ascend or not, he 
saw, far above him on the rocks, a man clothed 
in green. He stopped him and asked the name 
of the castle and by whom it was occupied. 

“It is Rotsburg,” he answered, “the resi- 
ence of Sir Gouthier de Rotsburg, whose hunts- 
man I am.” 

“Is he at the castle?” 

“Certainly; he is at table, he has company.” 

“Will he hospitably welcome a troubadour?” 

“Joyfully, if the singer is really an artist: be- 
cause Sir Gouthier is an amateur, well versed in 
the arts of trouvere himself, and his daughter, 
our noble Lady Basilissa, will give you both 
meat and drink for a beautiful song, or even a 
pretty story. You are just in time, sir; we have 
very distinguished company, and as they have 
only finished dinner they will be in the mood to 
empty their glasses; and as wine and song go 
well together, come with me and I will announce 
you to my master. ’ ’ 


THK SORCERER. 


43 


u 




Wilfred followed him into the castle and 
waited in the ante-chamber. The huntsman soon 
returned, and told him that Sir G uthier would 
permit him to entertain his guests by his songs. 

The young man entered the banquet hall; 
bowing profoundly, he waited silently for a com- 
mand from the Tord, during which time he 
closely scanned the party, which was composed 
of about seven or eight knights, all pretty well 
advanced in years. 

They all seemed happy, and as they still held 
their well-filled glasses in their hands, it was to 
be supposed that the noble juice of the grape had 
warmed their heads and rejoiced their hearts. 
One of them appeared more excited than the 
others. 

Two cup-bearers stood, with flagons in their 
hands, ready to fill the glasses at the first sign 
from their master. 

“Well, sir singer, do you know any good 
songs ?” asked Sir Gouthier de Rotsburg. 

“The gracious Lord and his noble guests 
shall judge whether niy humble skill is worthy 
of their approbation: I will do my best,” replied 
Wilfred. 

“Commence then, and let us hear you.” 

After tuning his harp, the young man began 
a chant whose soft melody and melancholy air 
brought a look of discontent on the faces of his 
audience. 

The knight with the red cheeks was particu- 
larly displeased, and grumbled. 


44 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


yy 


“This is not a song calculated to brighten 
your hearers ! ” . . . 

But he soon became quiet# as the penetrating 
voice of the troubadour soothed him as well as 
his companions. There was something touch- 
ing and enchanting in the plaintive sweetness 
of the song as it fell from the minstrel’s lips. 
It was as follows: 

THE troubadour’s PRAYER. 

“How beautiful it must be to lead the life of 
a hero, to struggle against violence and injustice, 
and to accomplish great feats of arms. The bow 
cannot always be bent. When we have hunted, 
struggled and fought all day, music and song 
must have their turn. So I tune my lute to sing 
my best, before these noble cavaliers. But if 
my voice is sad, be not surprised, as the bitter- 
ness of my soul finds expression in my songs. 

II. 

“O you who hear me so compassionately, ex- 
cuse the poet who disturbs your gaiety. I wish to 
drive away my trouble to please you. My heart 
longs for solace and brightness: but my deep 
sorrow evinces itself in spite of me, in my songs. 
In order to hope still, I seek new strength in 
the expression of my own grief: my afflicted 
heart finds fresh consolation in my plaintive ac- 
cents.” 

There was a moment’s silence: the gentlemen 
looked at each other to explain the curious im- 
pression produced on them by these stanzas. It 


THE SORCERER.” 


45 


ii 

had thrown a cloud over them, they had never- 
theless heard it with mingled pleasure and ad- 
miration. 

“Sir, your voice is beautiful, you are a charm- 
ing artist,” said Sir Gouthier, “but do you not 
know something brighter and livelier.” 

“Indeed,” said the red-cheeked knight, “a 
funeral song is perhaps very beautiful, but there 
is nothing bright about it — it is only good to put 
us in the ground.” 

“Do not allow the words of my good friend, 
Sir Adalbert de Mirewart to wound you,” said 
the lyord of the castle. “His intentions are 
good, and he has a noble and generous heart.” 

“ I am very unhappy, and I have great sorrow,” 
replied Wilfred ; “ but my lute shall give forth 
a brighter air.” 

“That will never do! That will never do! 
said Sir Adalbert laughing. “Ah! I under- 
stand: the singer is thirsty. Pour him out some 
wine, and let him drink several glasses, and I 
am certain he will find himself more disposed to 
gaiety. ’ ’ 

The page presented to him a well-filled cup; 
he drank it with real pleasure, and felt as if fire 
had been poured through his veins. He was 
about to return the cup, when Sir Adalbert 
cried: “Again! again!” until Wilfred had 
emptied the cup three times. 

“What do the noble Lords wish now?” asked 
the young man, whose eyes sparkled, as he 


THE SORCERER. 


46 


n 


played a prelude of a few chords on his lute: ‘‘ A 
love sOng or a pretty story ?’ ’ 

“A love song,” responded the Lord. 

“No, a drinking song: a eulogy on wine!” 
cried Sir Adalbert.’ 

“Yes, sir, yes; a eulogy on wine,” repeated the 
others.” 

“Well, I will satisfy your friendly desire,” said 
Wilfred. 

And he sang in an energetic voice a joyous 
song, the chorus of which was repeated by them 
all as they clinked their glasses. Sir Adalbert 
approached the singer ,and took him by the 
hand, saying that if he wished to come to the 
Castle of Mirewart, he would be welcomed with 
joy and richly recompensed. 

All expressed their admiration of Wilfred’s 
talent and wished to thank him, urging h^im to 
drink more wine, which he refused, saying he 
would much prefer something to eat, as he had 
not eaten since morning. 

“Why did you not say so, my charming 
singer?” cried Sir Gouthier. “ Now you will 
have to wait a little while, and gain your dinner 
by another song and another fable. My daughter 
Basilissa adores music and singing. She must 
hear you. Tune your lute; I am going to find 
her, and at the same time to give orders to the 
cook to prepare you a good supper immediately. ’ ’ 

A few minutes later Sir Gouthier returned, 
leading his daughter by the hand. 


THE SORCERER.” 


47 


(( 


CHAPTER VIII. 

BASIEISSA. 

She was a marvel of beauty: the fresh clear 
look from her clear blue eyes, and the engaging 
smile of her lips, gave her the naive grace of a 
child, though the stateliness of her carriage 
showed that she had attained at least eig-hteen 
years of age. 

“ Basilissa,” said her father, “ here is a charm- 
ing singer. He touches the heart so deeply that 
the accents of his voice, now sweet and caressing, 
now strong and bold, make you forget the world 
entire.ly. I wish you could have heard him 
praise the wine foaming in the glasses.” 

“I heard it from afar, my dear father,” she 
answered. “Ah! how it touched me: the tones 
penetrated into my very heart.” 

Perhaps the wine made the young man forget 
for the moment his sorrows and the bitterness 
of his fate, because he answered the young girl’s 
flattering words: 

“God be thanked for having brought me to 
this castle, where beat hearts ennobled not only 
by birth, but still more so, by their kindness and 
love of art. O Lady, what more precious recom- 
pense could a poor troubadour receive here be- 


48 ‘‘the sorcerer.” 

low, than thanks from a mouth so gracious, so 
kind, so — ” 

The words died on his lips. He feared that 
she had seen, from the boldness of his speech, 
that he was not an ordinary troubadour. If his 
song had touched the young girl, the sweet and 
sympathetic voice of Basilissa made a much 
more profound impression on him. 

“Will the gentle troubadour sing something 
forme?’’ asked Basilissa, looking at the young 
man with so charming a smile that he trembled. 

“Command, noble lady; it will give me great 
happiness to obey your wishes.” 

“I do not wish to command, I only address 
you in a simple prayer.” 

She went and sat by her father, saying: 

“Father, will not the troubadour remain some 
days at Rotsburg?” 

“It is my intention to invite him to stay until 
after the great hunt, when we will have many 
guests.” 

“He is well brought up, and speaks grace- 
fully; do you not think so, father? We are not 
often honored by such artists at Rotsburg.” 

“No, I am astonished to see him here. He is 
unhappy and in great trouble, he says. If his 
first song meant anything, he is an exile from 
his country. Why ? But listen, he is playing a 
prelude.” 

Indeed, Wilfred began to sing a strange* 
song, which seemed to come from the bottom of 


THE SORCERER. 


49 


(( 


)) 


his heart: because he made numerous allusions 
to the noble and charming young lady, whose 
sweet smile had so touched him. 

He sang in a deep and melodious voice this 
ballad, the refrain of which was: 

“The most peaceful and the sweetest 
thing on earth is a woman’s smile.” 

Basilissa was in dreamland; she could not re- 
move her eyes from the handsome singer, and 
seemed to cling to the words as they fell from 
his lips. Wilfred had already stopped, never- 
theless she seemed to be still listening. She 
was drawn away from her reverie by her father’s 
friends, who surrounded her, and who loudly 
applauded the singer. 

The wine had aroused the courtesy of the old 
Cavaliers. “His songs have nothing exagger- 
ated about them,” they said; “but if this was 
true of women in general, how much more the 
case when inspired by the smile of the beautiful 
Basilissa, which could be truly pronounced the 
sweetest thing in the world.” 

The young girl accepted these flatteries with a 
child-like pleasure; she seemed very happy, and 
continued to praise* the troubadour. 

Meanwhile the servants had set the table for 
Wilfred, who being very hungry, sat down 
before supper was served. 

“Father,” said Basilissa,” should I not exer- 
cise the duties of hospitality towards the trouba- 


THK SORCERER. 


50 


t( 




dour? There is no one with him but the ser- 
vants” . . . 

“Oh! oh! young lady!” said one of the old 
knights. “A troubadour? Take care: he is 
not nobly born!” 

“Perhaps, Sir Gerull,” answered she; “but 
has not God ennot)led him by giving him 
talents so beautiful ?” 

“Ennobled? not altogether, Basilissa,” ans- 
wered her father; “art however certainly raises 
a man above the common herd. Go, my child, 
pay him the honors which he deserves.” 

The young girl went to the poet, served him, 
poured out the wine, and invited him to eat, so 
showing Wilfred and the servants that art and 
artists were appreciated and honored at Rots- 
burg. 

Wilfred was so lost in admiration of his charm- 
ing hostess, that he could not think of eating. 
At first he looked at her, but was soon obliged 
to lower his eyes, because the young girl’s gaze, 
in spite of its angelic purity, made his heart 
beat violently. 

His repast was almost finished, when Basi- 
lissa suddenly said to him: 

‘ ‘ Sir, my father will invite you to pass several 
days with us: you will accept, will you not?” 

“Oh, with joy, with great happiness,” an- 
swered the young man. 

“We will remember you and your beautiful 
songs for a long time at Rotsburg. Will you let 
us know your name? Tell it me, I beg you.” 


THK sorcerer.” 


u 


51 


“My name!” stammered the young man; 
“my name, I^ady.” 

“Yes, what is yonr name ?” 

“Ah, do not ask it!” 

“Why? You wish to remain unknown, to es- 
cape the renown which is due you ? But I wish 
to know: yon grieve me in refusing.” 

“lam called . . .lam called Wilfred,” an- 
swered the young man sighing, as if afraid of 
his own words. 

“Wilfred?” joyfully repeated the young girl, 
“oh! what a pretty name! I had a brother called 
Wilfred, bnt alas! he died a hero, serving the 
Emperor. God rest his soul! . . . and after, 
sir, after?” 

‘ ‘ After ?’ ’ repeated the troubadour, anxiously. 

“Yes, where were you born? What is your 
father’s name?” 

“Be merciful!” murmured Wilfred, “an in- 
violable secret rests on me. I cannot tell you 
who I am, nor from whence I come. Do not 
ask it of me, and I will bless and thank you 
from the bottom of my heart.” 

And he raised his hands to her in a supplicat- 
ing manner, as his eyes filled with tears. 

“As you wish,” answered Basilissa, aston- 
ished, and showing a little discontent. “I will 
respect your secret. Now I must to my father, 
and I trust that Sir Wilfred will give us some 
new sample of his talents. ’ ’ 

The young man remained much longer at the 


52 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


n 


table. When he had finished his supper, his head 
fell on his breast, and he seemed to be absorbed 
by gloomy reflections. Did he regret having 
given his first name? or did he fear that the 
young girl’s irresistible charms would lead him 
to dangerous revelations ? 

Sir Adalbert de Mirewart roused him. 

“Hello, sir singer,” said he, “it is not yet 
time to sleep. Relate something, if you please, 
some chivalrous adventure, some feat of arms. 
Do you know the story of Godreon?” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Wilfred, “I know the 
touching story of Godreon, and many others be- 
sides. ’ ’ 

“Well, tell us some of them, sir; and so as not 
to tire yourself too much in speaking, come to 
the table and take a seat.” 

The troubadour obeyed, seating himself in 
front of the old Lord and his daughter. 

He commenced to relate how Godreon, the 
beautiful fiancee of Herwig was captured by the 
son of King Hartmoed . . . She refused to ac- 
cept him for a husband, and was condemned for 
a year to do the coarse and repugnant work of a 
servant. Her firmness and fidelity to Herwig 
were at last recompensed; her brothers conquered 
the son of Hartmoed, delivered her from slavery, 
and restored her triumphantly to the arms of her 
fiancee. 

He had recited this story, sometimes in prose 
and sometimes in verse, sustaining his voice by 


THE SORCERER.” 


53 


( i 


accompanying himself on the lute, but always 
with deep sentiment, and poetical coloring. His 
hearers were spellbound: Basilissa was deeply 
touched by the sufferings of the beautiful God- 
reon. Tears of pity flowed from her eyes. 

“Come, come! young man,” cried Sir Adal- 
bert, “something gayer, more amusing — some- 
thing to make us laugh.” 

Then Wilfred related the strange history of 
Carl the Great, Emperor of Blegast, the thief who 
made his Sovereign go stealing with him ; then 
the story of the bears of Wisselau, then that of 
the Chevalier Roland, who perished so miserably 
in the war against the Infidels. It was evident 
to everybody that the young man could not, in 
spite of his efforts, remain gay. In all that he 
said or sang, there was a sadness which the 
knights attributed to the sorrows which he 
mentioned in his first song. 

Worn out by the long walk he had taken 
since morning, and fatigued by the recitals and 
songs, Wilfred expressed a wish to go to rest. 
The old Lord called a servant to show his guest 
to his room. 

As the old knights were to leave next morn- 
ing, they bade him good-by, each in turn in- 
viting him to come to his castle, and promising 
him a hearty welcome. 

Basilissa looked at him, her eyes dimmed by 
tears. 

“Ah! how good and generous you are to me, 


54 


THE SORCERER. 


u 


n 


gentlemen, and you, noble lady,” sighed Wil- 
fred, much moved. “I am very much ex- 
hausted, nevertheless I wish in saying good-bye 
to you to give you something gay. Give me my 
lute, I will sing you the 

‘ ‘ troubadour’ s goodnight. ’ ’ 

And hex sang them a song, the refrain of which 
was: 

“On a northern tower 
Resounds the guard’s horn, 

Day is fleeting 
God watch o’er you, 

Chevaliers, good night. ’ ’ 

And as he left then, Basilissa and the gentle- 
men repeated the chorus: 


Beautiful singer, good night.” 


“the sorcerer.” 


55 


CHAPTER IX. 

LOVE. 

The first light of day was shining in the east, 
when Wilfred was awakened by the noise of 
horses neighing in the court yard. He remem- 
bered that the old knights were going to start 
before daylight. No doubt Sir Gouthier de 
Rotsburg was still in bed. 

As it was yet almost dark, and the young man 
felt very much fatigued, he turned his head on 
his pillow and tried to sleep; but was not suc- 
cessful, as he dreamed of his awful situation and 
the menacing circumstances of the evening be- 
fore. He arose, dressed, and fell on a chair near 
the head of his bed, and was soon lost in deep 
thought. What had* he dreamed during his 
sleep? 

The remembrance was not even clear in his 
mind; what he did know, was that Basilissa’s 
face and sweet smile was before his eyes the 
whole night. Why did the remembrance of this 
smile, which was but a dream after all, cause 
him so much trouble? 

Was this love? But he had only seen the 
young girl for a few minutes. 

And in her childish simplicity, she had wished 


THE SORCERER. 


56 


u 


)) 


to honor the singer, whose talent had so charmed 
her, so had been friendly to him. 

She could have no sympathy with a man 
whose birth she believed to be obscure . . . But 
where had his thoughts carried him? All ideas 
of love were denied him, who was obliged to be 
an unknown wanderer on the face of the earth, 
and must even break the slightest ties of friend- 
ship. A smile played about his mouth, ne 
laughed at his own emotions as childish . . . 
But he immediately shuddered with apprehen- 
sion. Basilissa’s sweet face was always before 
him; her voice always ringing in his ear, and his 
heart beat rapidly at the thought of her irresist- 
ible grace. 

But, O awful doubt I Perhaps he had been en- 
snared to Rotsburg by the power of the curse 
which weighed on him, in order to accomplish 
his fall. 

What must he do? He must not hesitate; he 
must fly immediately — leave Rotsburg and re- 
commence his miserable wandering life. 

He rose and walked rapidly to and fro, groan- 
ing all the time. The sun was already quite 
high, but no noise was heard but the barking of 
the dogs; no doubt the inmates of the castle were 
still asleep. 

Wilfred left his room, and descended a stone 
stairway to a green terrace which had a balus- 
trade, also of stone, from which there was a 
view of the surrounding country. 


‘‘THE SORCERER.’’ 


57 


This view was exceedingly picturesque, and 
the young man could not tear himself away 
from the contemplation of the beautiful land- 
scape. 

He was torn by conflicting emotions: a strong 
desire to accept the generous hospitality offered 
him at Rotsburg, and so remain near this 
charming Basilissa, and the fear of exposing 
her to a peril much greater, because unknown. 

At last he took an energetic resolution. 

“I will leave,” he said, “midday must not 
find me at Rotsburg.” 

This resolution drew from him a profound 
sigh, and just as he was about to tear himself 
away, he fell into a deep revery. 


58 


THE SORCERER. 


u 


)» 


CHAPTER X. 

INDECISION. 

He was suddenly roused by the sound of a 
sweet voice. Basilissa was beside him, and her 
enchanting smile caused him to shudder. 

“Did the charming singer sleep well?” she 
asked. “No, probably, since I find him here so 
early in the morning.” 

“Thanks to your hospitality, noble Eady, I 
passed a good night. I am going to say good 
morning to his Eordship, your father” . . . 

“No, sir,” said she, restraining him by a ges- 
ture, “my father is up perhaps, but not yet down 
stairs. Let us be seated: I wish to tell you of 
my dream. If it could be realized, I would 
thank heaven, my father, and you above all. 
Master Wilfred.” 

The young man obeyed, stammering: 

“I am listening. The dreams of a sweet noble 
young girl like you, must be as charming as the 
most beautiful poetry.” 

“Ah! ah! sir, you have, no doubt frequented 
the courts of princes, you know how to flatter so 
well. My dream was without doubt beautiful; 
but for me alone. Listen: I dreamed that my 
father had invited you to remain here a long 


“the sorcerer.” 


59 


time, and that you had accepted his hospitality; 
that my father desired me to take lessons in sing- 
ing and on the harp from you, and that you 
taught me your beautiful songs, with an admir- 
able patience. « I was seated beside you, listen- 
ing with a charmed attention. I worked so 
hard, that I could finally unite my voice with 
yours, and we sang so sweetly together, that 
my father shed tears of joy. But at last, 
alas!” . . . 

“But at last?” repeated Wilfred with a sort of 
terror. 

“But at last, to my grief, you left us. That 
was natural, was it not ? I would have given a 
great deal to have taken lessons from you for 
several months; but you could not remain longer 
at Rotsburg, you were obliged to go away. My 
father paid you well, and gave you beau- 
tiful new clothes, you were contented; but 
strange to say, in my dream I cried like a child, 
when I saw you disappear behind the rock be- 
low. . . . What do you say to this dream, sir?” 

Wilfred kept his eyes fixed on the young girl, 
even after she had finished speaking. He heard 
her attentively; not only what she said, but the 
mere sound of her voice enchanted him like the 
most heavenly music. 

“ Ahf my dream will be realized, the begin- 
ning at least; is it not so, sir?” 

“Impossible, impossible!” sighed the young 
man. 


6o ‘‘the sorcerer.’’ 

“ How so? Did I hear you aright?” she cried 
with sad surprise. “You will refuse to teach me 
your beautiful art?” 

“It would not only be a great honor, but it 
would be a great happiness for me; but I must 
go, I really must.” 

“ Deave, O heaven!” . 

“To-day, even.” 

“But yesterday you promised to remain!” 

“Yes, but your generous welcome, and per- 
haps your amiability, made me forget my hard 
duty. I am the victim of a cruel fate, which 
makes me say good-bye to you to-(5ay; and no 
matter what regrets I may have, I must obey.” 

“My beautiful dream then is only a vain 
illusion!” groaned Basilissa. 

“Alas, yes. Believe me I am distressed, but 
unable to do as you wish.” 

“And I, who came to you so early, to find this 
only an idle dream! . . . detain you against 
your will . . . but there still remains one 
hope.” 

“Abandon it, I beg of you: it can never be 
realized.” ... 

“ We will see, sir. I am only a weak girl, and 
do not know how to make you feel that you are 
acting badly in not keeping your promise; but 
my father is eloquent, his words will have more 
weight with you.” 

“More weight with me!” muttered Wilfred in 
a low, trembling voice; “what can have more 


“thk sorcerer.” 6l 

weight with me than the smile of a noble lady 
who” . . . 

“Sir, will you follow me,” interrupted Basil- 
issa, “it is time for my father to be coming 
down. Wait, there is Rigaud, the butler, com- 
ing to announce breakfast.” 

Wilfred followed hei: into the breakfast room, 
where they found Sir Gouthier already seated at 
table. 

“Good morning. Sir Singer,” said he to the 
young man, who bowed to him. “Did you 
sleep well ? Yes — I am happy to hear it. Our 
friends left this morning at daybreak. We are 
here alone, and can amuse ourselves chatting 
and singing. Basilissa, bring a chair, so as to 
have our guest at table with us. Whilst at Rots- 
burg he must consider himself one of the 
family.” 

Basilissa obeyed, serving the troubadour’s 
breakfast, saying sadly: 

“Father, we are mistaken in our wishes. 
Master Wilfred must leave us to-day.” 

“What? What does this mean?” cried Sir 
Gouthier with an incredulous laugh. “ Did you 
not tell me yesterday that the troubadour had 
joyfully accepted our invitation to remain some 
days ?’ ’ 

“Yes, father, but he has changed his mind; he 
wishes to leave.” 

“Leave? Impossible. Is my daughter tell- 
ing the truth, sir?” 


62 “the sorcerer. ’ ’ 

“Yes, my I/ord, I deeply regret being obliged 
to refuse your generous offer. • I am under the 
power of a tyrannical destiny, and when it com- 
mands, I must obey.” 

“Let us breakfast, sir,” said Sir Gouthier, 
with a shade of displeasure. This unexpected 
news must not spoil our appetites. Later, we 
will speak more seriously, sir; but if you hope to 
leave, you will be mistaken, ... at least, un- 
less you have more potent reasons to give than 
these vague words.” 

There was a long silence. Basilissa seemed 
very sad: she kept her eyes down, and sighed fre- 
quently. Wilfred suffered cruelly at the thought 
of his refusal afflicting the noble young girl who 
had given him so kind a welcome, especially as 
she thought him only a humble poet of obscure 
birth. 

When breakfast was over. Sir Gouthier con- 
tinued: 

“Since yesterday evening, sir, I hardly know 
what to think of you. Whence comes this pre- 
occupation? I do not understand it: your talent 
does not explain it. You inspire me with a 
strange interest — I would like to do something 
for you. Excuse then, my importunity, it is 
only my sympathy for you. You do not seem 
to me to be an ordinary troubadour. Your lan- 
guage, your actions, something about you, makes 
me think you nobly born. Am I mistaken in 
my suppositions?” 


‘‘the sorcerer.” 63 

Wilfred, foreseeing this question, had time to 
prepare for it. 

“Your supposition is a great honor to me, 
but it is without foundation, my Lord,” an- 
swered he, apparently very calm. ‘ ‘ My father is 
a worthy man, who makes a living in commerce. 
In my childhood I had the best masters, and 
since have frequented castles, and even courts, 
so that I have adopted, perhaps, their manners 
of speech and action.” 

The young man was obliged to exert himself 
to so great an extent in order to dissimulate thus, 
that his breast heaved with sighs. 

“Very well, sir, I believe you; but will you 
then explain to me what you meant by these 
words of your first song: 

“ ‘ I must wander like one. ’ 

“You do not answer me? I understand you 
are an exile. Justly or not — naturally I do not 
know — you are exiled from your country. 
Well, sir, yesterday I realized that you are 
an unhappy man, and have had much sorrow. 
Explain to me the cause of your banishment. I 
am powerful, and have many friends, even at 
the Emperor’s Court. I will make every effort to 
have you relieved from this proscription.” 

“Thanks for the generous protection which 
you offer me, my Lord,” said Wilfred, “but you 
are mistaken. I am not an exile.” 

“What have you done, then? My mind re- 


64 “the sorcerer.” 

fuses to believe that you could be guilty of any 
crime in your own country.” 

“Ah! you are right, my lyord!” cried Wilfred, 
much moved. “I have never, knowingly, in- 
jured any one.” 

“Then, why fly from your country? Why 
wander like one accused ? Why not let us, who 
wish it, be your friends, know your name and 
who you are? You doubt our sincerity, since you 
refuse us your confidence?” 

The young man was a prey to the most 
frightful tortures. He had so resolved to guard 
his secret, that the sorrowful and supplicating 
look fixed on him by Basilissa shocked him. 

“I am, perhaps, making a fatal mistake,” he 
replied, “but your goodness, my Lord, overcomes 
my resolutions. I cannot tell you everything. 
Know only, that a cruel, terrible fate, awaits me. 
If you wish it, think I am acting under a prom- 
ise, a vow, an oath, or a charm; but the truth is, 
that for five years I must remain unknown. If 
my birthplace or my name is discovered, I will 
die a frightful death. Inexorable fate has or- 
dained it, and nothing can prevent its execu- 
tion.” 

“Ah! poor young man,” cried Basilissa, grow- 
ing pale. “How unhappy he is! . . . And he 
has never done a wrong to any one.” 

“ Never!” 

Sir Gouthier bowed his head in a thoughtful 
manner, but made no observation. 


THE SORCERER. 


65 


u 




“Do you understand now, my Lord,” asked 
Wilfred, “why, in spite of your persuasions, I 
must refuse to reveal to you this secret on which 
my life depends ? — why yesterday evening I ac- 
cepted your generous hospitality for a few days, 
and why to-day I hear a stern voice command- 
ing me to leave immediately?” 

“Yes, sir, I understand at least the motives 
for your wishing to leave us, which I regret ex- 
ceedingly. Five days from now we will have a 
large hunt; numbers of our friends will be here. 
In the evening we will have quite a joyous fes- 
tivity. I already felt proud and happy at the 
thought of introducing an artist of your talent to 
my guests . . . but since it is impossible for 
you to yield to my wishes, and you have decided 
to go, God watch over you!” . . . 

“ My dear father, ” sighed Basilissa, “do not 
yet say good-bye to Master Wilfred. Why will 
he not remain for a few days? We will ask him 
no questions. If he is convinced that we will 
respect his secret, he will no longer feel obliged 
to leave Rotsburg so hastily.” 

“Yes, my child, but how convince him, since 
he remains deaf to my persuasions and prayers?” 

Basilissa joined her hands, and gave the young 
man a look which pierced his very soul. 

“O! Master Wilfred,” she said in an enchant- 
ing voice, “I beg of you, be good to us! Re- 
main several days; teach me your beautiful 
songs and legends; I will be so happy, I will 
3 


66 “the sorcerer.’^ 

always think of you with gratitude . . . you 
bow your head and remain unmoved ? Alas, no 
one has ever refused me anything: you are the 
first!” 

The young man, as if enchanted by Basilissa’s 
sweet prayer, became much shaken in his reso- 
lution. 

“Yes, yes,” she said, her eyes bright with 
hope. 

“Yes,” he said, vanquished, “yes, I will re- 
main.” 

“God be praised, he will remain,” cried the 
young girl, clapping her hands. 

Sir Gouthier took the young man’s hand, say- 
ing: 

“I thank you, sir. May I be certain that you 
will delight my friends with your music, the 
evening of the hunt?” 

“On one express and inviolable condition,” 
answered Wilfred; “that no one here will, either 
directly or indirectly, seek to know who I am 
or whence I come. No matter what I do, they 
must maintain towards me an absolute discretion. 
At the slightest word or allusion, which will 
lead me to fear that my secret may be discovered, 
I will leave without a word of explanation, or 
even good-bye. And you, my noble protectress, 
for whom I have so much respect and gratitude, 
will you not then accuse me of being ungrate- 
ful ? Tell me that you accept and will fulfil these 
conditions, and I will thankfully accept your 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


67 


hospitality, and remain with you until after the 
day of the hunt.’’ 

“We accept your conditions, sir,” said Sir 
Gouthier. 

“Not an indiscreet word shall fall from our 
lips,” added Basilissa. 

“Then, sir,” said the old Lord, “consider 
yourself as if in the midst of your own family. 
You will teach my daughter some legends and 
ballads; and the remainder of the time we will 
pass in pleasant conversation. You will take all 
your meals with us, when we have no company; 
Of course you understand, such cannot be the 
case when we have noble knights with us.” 

“ Certainly, my Lord; a troubadour of humble 
birth, such as I, must not be discontented. Do 
not fear from me importunity, inconvenience, 
or indiscretion. My secret even imposes humil- 
ity and reserve.” 

“Come now, sir, the weather is beautiful, the 
sky is clear and the sun bright; we will take a 
walk around the Castle. Basilissa is an enthus- 
iast about nature, and will point out to you the 
beauties much better than I.” 

They walked for several hours, resting every 
now and then on a rock to enjoy the view. 

Basilissa was happy; she took great pleasure 
in making the troubadour admire the lovely 
■country which was spread out before their eyes. 

Returning, tired of admiring the views, they 
paid less attention to nature, and Sir Gouthier 


68 “the sorcerer.” 

conversed with Wilfred on many subjects, which 
gave the young man an opportunity of showing 
how well versed he was on all. 

Sir Gouthier felt his esteem for his guest in- 
creasing. What pleased him above all, was his 
great modesty and the delicacy of his sentiments; 
becaUvSe Basilissa treated him with great famili- 
arity, speaking as freely to him as to a brother, 
but the young man never forgot the distance 
which existed between him and the heiress of 
Rotsburg. He treated her with the greatest 
amount of respect, and answered her always in 
words carefully chosen,, reserved and dignified, 
which seemed surprising in one who was lowly 
born. But Sir Gouthier dared not risk reflection 
on this subject, and explained it to himself as a 
habit acquired by troubadours, from mixing with 
the nobility. They returned to the Castle, and 
Wilfred dined with his hosts. 

The young man became absorbed several 
times, but Basilissa distracted him sweetly; the 
innocent young girl little knew that she alone 
was the cause. Her look troubled him, her 
voice made his heart beat, and he frequently 
lowered his eyes to sustain himself against the 
charm of her presence. 

After dinner he commenced to teach Basilissa 
his songs and fables. He showed so much zeal, 
and she proved so docile a pupil, that by the 
end of the day she knew two songs and four 
fables. 


THE SORCERER. 


u 


69 


She had a pure sympathetic voice, with pro- 
found musical sentiment. 

As to the Count de Rotsburg, he was in ec- 
stasy when he heard his daughter sing with Wil- 
fred. 

That night when Wilfred retired to his bed- 
room, he seated himself on a chair, to think of 
all that had happened to him during the day. 

At first his position seemed dangerous to him, 
because, hide it from himself as he would, he 
knew the interest inspired in him by the young 
girl was more than ordinary. And where would 
this lead him if his heart was really so deeply 
moved? Should he not fear and avoid all affec- 
tionate ties? Ah! he had been very imprudent, 
remaining at Rotsburg. However, he could not 
now leave before the hunt. If the old Lord and 
his daughter respected his conditions, he must 
hold to his promise! Alas! was it not a snare, 
set for him by the occult power which possessed 
him? 

He let his head fall on his breast and remained 
for some time in a painful study; but Basilissa 
seemed to be standing before him smiling, and 
he murmured to himself: 

“What difference does it make if her look 
agitates me, if I hide this weakness of my heart 
from every one ? In five days I will recover my 
liberty. Then I will leave Rotsburg, and travel 
far beyond the Rhine, so as never to return to 
this country. My fears are vain . . . four days 


70 “the sorcerer.” 

will pass quickly! There will remain nothing 
between Basilissa and me but a sweet memory. 
Have confidence in God and rest, blessing His 
holy name! 

For several minutes he raised his eyes to 
heaven as if to implore protection, then threw 
himself on the bed. Sweet dreams visited his 
sleep, without disturbing his repose. 


THE SORCERER. 




n 


71 


CHAPTER XL 

THE CONQUERED HORSE. 

Four days had passed, without Wilfred hav- 
ing any reason to regret his stay at Rotsburg. 
Basilissa already knew many songs, ballads and 
fables, in return for which she showed great 
friendship for Wilfred. Sir Gouthier enjoyed 
conversing with him, and had insisted several 
times that he should remain after the hunt. 
But Wilfred had most decidedly refused. In- 
deed, the young man could no longer dissimulate, 
even to himself, he no longer had possession of 
his heart, and must leave on the appointed day, 
if he did not wish to betray himself. 

The day of the great hunt dawned. Wilfred 
had already been twice awakened by the sound 
of the horn, which he knew announced the ar- 
rival of the invited guests. After dressing he 
went to the window, and saw several noblemen 
arrive with their huntsmen and mounted follow- 
ers. 

His thoughts were very sad, remembering his 
paternal castle of Isersteen, his poor mother, his 
venerable father . . . and the brilliant hunts 
which he himself had conducted, as master and 
Eord. In imagination he saw the sombre forest 


72 “the sorcerer.” 

of Ever; the wolves, the bears, the stag and 
boars, all flashed before him; he even put spurs 
to his horse, running them to earth, riding over 
hill and dale, chasing and killing the fallow 
deer . . . 

And whilst the air resounded with cries of 
Haro! haro! hali! hala! he blew on his hunting 
horn the triumphant whoop. When this vision 
was dispersed, he bowed his head in a dis- 
couraged manner. 

“O, sweet springtime of my life! ” sighed he, 
“ beautiful heaven, which the tender smile of my 
mother brightens like the rays of the sun! 
liberty, power, pleasure, chivalrous deeds, you 
are all past for poor Wilfred. But the recollec- 
tion is still a great happiness.” 

He finished his toilet and went down stairs. 

After breakfast he joined Sir Gouthier and 
Basilissa in the large courtyard, to assist in the 
final preparations for the hunt. 

A dozen cavaliers were already there, with 
their followers; animation and excitement 
reigned supreme. The horses had been stabled 
to rest them, and were now brought out, saddled 
and bridled. 

The kennels were opened. The hunters blew 
their horns, the sharp blasts of which made the 
horses neigh and the dogs bark. 

All these exciting noises agitated Wilfred so 
that he could scarcely attend to the sweet words 
of Basilissa, who was explaining to him that 


73 


“the sorcerer.” 

they frequently encountered wild beasts in the 
Rotsburg forest. The young man was seized 
with the hunting fever; his blood boiled, and his 
heart beat almost to bursting. 

When all was ready, and they were about to 
mount. Sir Gouthier said laughingly, to the 
troubadour: 

“I regret so much, sir, that you cannot at 
least follow the hunt at a distance. It is worth 
the trouble for one who has never seen such a 
spectacle; but you probably do not ride?” 

“I beg your pardon. Sir,” answered Wilfred 
proudly; “I am a very good horseman.’’ 

“Really! Do you wish to try, sir? I will 
be delighted to have you join us.” 

Sir Gouthier ordered a huntsman to dismount, 
and give his horse, which was gentle and easily 
controlled, to Wilfred. 

The huntsman seemed very much disap- 
pointed, being obliged to remain at the Castle, 
as there were no other available horses. 

“You are angry, Martin,” said Sir Gouthier, 
“that you cannot follow the hunt? Is there no 
way for you to do so, unless you ride the stallion 
at the risk of an accident?” 

“Oh! my Lord, you know that is impossible,” 
replied the hunter. “I will break my neck be- 
fore I leave the Castle. No one can remain on 
the back of that devil.” 

These words drew Wilfred’s attention, and ex- 
cited his curiosity. 


74 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


n 


‘‘Give me the stubborn horse. I will see if I 
can conquer him.” 

Sir Gonthier and his friends sought to dis- 
suade him from this wild idea. Basilissa was 
very much frightened, and joined her entreaties 
to the others; but the young man, carried away by 
excitement, showed such confidence in himself, 
that they consented to let him try. Sir Gonthier 
was convinced that at the sight of the stallion 
the troubadour would renounce this wild project. 

Wilfred carefully buckled on a pair of very 
pointed spurs, and scarcely seemed to heed the 
counsel so sweetly given him by Basilissa. 

Two grooms led the unruly stallion, already 
saddled and bridled; he was called the Devil. 
He was a beautiful animal, restive and full of 
fire, but easily managed if they did not attempt 
to mount him. He arched his neck and looked 
around with sparkling eyes, and uttered a ter- 
rible neigh, which re-echoed and frightened 
the other horses. Wilfred went to the stallion’s 
head, and spoke to him in a voice, the com- 
manding tone of which astonished every one. 

‘‘Be careful of yourself! You are called the 
Devil; but if you were the evil spirit himself, 
you will find your match to-day. Behave your- 
self then, else you will come to grief through 
me.” 

He refused the help of the grooms, and vaulted 
into the saddle, pressing his spurs into the sides 
of the horse. The animal was furious, and com- 


THE SORCERER.” 


75 


(( 

menced to dart and kick and prance in every 
direction, at the same time jerking the reins, 
and starting so quickly that it scarcely seemed 
possible for Wilfred to remain in the saddle. 
The knights were grouped on the castle stairway 
watching this alarming spectacle. 

The stallion, exasperated by his fruitless ef- 
forts, and by the repeated use of the spur, stood 
on his hind feet, trying at the same time, by 
shaking, to unseat the rider. 

The spectators shuddered, fearing every min- 
ute to see the troubadour thrown to the ground 
and trampled under the horse’s feet. Basilissa 
uttered cries of fright, raising her eyes to heaven. 

. . . But, when she saw the stallion prance 
several times, and come down on his feet again 
without unhorsing his rider, who seemed fast- 
ened to the saddle, her fright changed to admir- 
ation, and her eyes sparkled with joy and pride 
at the sight of the young man’s heroic victory. 

The knights were impressed in the same way. 
The troubadour struggling thus, and winning a 
powerful victory over the furious animal, was 
really a beautiful and imposing spectacle — his 
eyes sparkling with pride, his ringing voice and 
energetic gestures, all tending to show in him 
the habit of command and of exercising his own 
will. 

The stallion continued to swerve, first to the 
right and then to the left, and to prance in a 
frightful manner. But far from fearing his vio- 


76 “the sorcerer. ’V 

lence, Wilfred in managing him gave him ter- 
rible pricks with the spur, teased him inces- 
santly, making him howl with rage and anger. 
After half an hour of this provoking struggle, a 
red stream came from the mouth of the horse, 
and the blood literally flowed from his sides. 

. . Then exhausted, breathing heavily, sweat- 
ing and trembling all over, he suddenly bowed 
his head as though ashamed. He was con- 
quered. 

The stupefled knights, and even the grooms, 
congratulated the troubadour. 

These congratulations recalled Wilfred to the 
danger of his position; he recognized that he had 
committed a grave indiscretion, which might 
compromise his secret. He calmed his agitation, 
knowing he would be questioned with regard to 
his skill in managing horses. But who knew? 
perhaps on the other hand he might have been 
urged to act so in order to hear his praises 
sounded by Basilissa. 

He threw the bridle to a groom, and jumping 
to the ground, went towards the group of 
knights, who were still on the stairway. Sir 
Gouthier lavished praises on him, the knights 
all expressed their admiration . . . Basilissa 
muttered some scarcely intelligible words to ex- 
press the fright and emotion caused by this 
spectacle. How extraordinar)^ — the young girl, 
instead of joining her congratulations to the 
others, lowered her eyes and appeared sad and 
confused. 


“the sorcerer.” 


77 


One of the cavaliers cried, shaking his head: 

“You may pretend, sir, to be a troubadour; 
you are certainly at liberty to hide your rank 
. . . but I honor you and offer you my friend- 
ship convinced that I shake the hand of a noble- 
man, and a valiant Chevalier.” 

“I thank you. Sir Chevalier, for your kind 
suppositions. This flattering mistake has often 
been made with regard to me. A few words will 
suffice to make you see your error. My father 
was a horse merchant; from my childhood I have 
been accustomed to mount and conquer the most 
unmanageable horses. I may say I have been 
brought up on a horse. Why then is it aston- 
ishing for me to ride like a cavalier, though I 
may be of low birth?” 

There was nothing to answer to this explana- 
tion, and it was accepted without contradiction. 
If the entire attention had not been centered on 
the troubadour, they would have seen that these 
words drew a deep sigh from Basilissa. 

“To horse, to horse, gentlemen!” cried Sir 
Gouthier. “We have no time to lose, the sun is 
already high in the heaven . . . Buglers, sound 
the call.” 

The Chevaliers mounted: Wilfred sprang on 
the stallion, who, recognizing the hand and voice 
of his conqueror, acted like a lamb. 

The hunters left the Castle, to the music of 
the horns, the barking of the dogs, and the 
neighing of the horses. 


78 


“thk sorckrkr.’’ 

Basilissa remained on the stairway absorbed in 
profound thought, as immovable as a statue. 
But struck by a sudden thought, she entered the 
house, and running to the northern tower, 
looked from the window towards the top of the 
rocks along the winding road, which crossed the 
river like a bridge. 

From there she could see the hunters, and dis- 
tinguish amongst them the troubadour by his 
tall horse and his clothes, which looked poor 
beside the brilliant costumes of the Fords. 

Forgetting everything, she remained by the 
window, until the hunters had crossed the 
plateau and disappeared from view. She went 
slowly down to her own room, and dropping 
into a chair, remained staring into vacancy. 
Now a smile would cross her lips, now she 
would heave a deep sigh, now she would shiver, 
as if with a chill . . . finally she bowed her 
head in her hands and wept bitterly. 


“thk sorcerer.” 


79 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE BEAR. 

The hunters now went northward towards the 
dark forest which covered the most remote part 
of the plateau. 

Sometimes the road was so rough that Ihe 
knights were obliged to ride single file. Then 
Wilfred remained in the back ground, thinking 
of Basilissa’s strange attitude — she had not 
offered him the slightest congratulations, on the 
contrary had seemed rather displeased with his 
victory over the stallion. 

Whilst alone he had a few moments for re- 
flection and soliloquized thus : 

“Perhaps her tender, pure soul is frightened 
at anything that resembles violence. Yes, that 
must have been the cause of her preoccupied air. 
She considers such proofs of strength and cour- 
age only a sign of a hard and insensible heart, 
which would impose its implacable will even on 
a weak woman. How mistaken she is! I would 
obey like a slave the slightest look from her 
eyes . . . But, O Heaven! Where are my 
thoughts carrying me? Am I demented? 
Ah! God be thanked, to-morrow I will re- 
cover my liberty and will bid good-by to Rots- 
burg, never to return.’’ 


8o “the sorcerer.’’ 

Nevertheless, he sighed, and continued his 
revery, only recovering himself when the 
cavalcade took a wider road and he found him- 
self in the midst of the knights, who continued 
to praise the strength and courage which the 
troubadour had displayed, and questioned him 
in every way, with regard to his birthplace, his 
parents, and his education ; because it seemed 
impossible to them that a young man, whom 
Sir Gouthier had so praised as a singer and an 
artist, could show at the same time a courage 
and skill which could only be expected from 
those carefully drilled as knights. 

Embarrassed by their questions, and forced to 
answer, Wilfred at first hesitated, then, de- 
ciding on his role, he mentioned a number of 
things with regard to his birth-place and his 
parents ; but what he told them was not mere 
invention. He expressed himself with great 
simplicity, and entered into details so precise 
and probable, that finally no one doubted his 
sincerity, and were convinced that he was really 
the son of a. horse-dealer. 

From this moment, though always agreeable 
with him, they never forgot the distance that 
separated an artist of obscure birth from a belted 
knight. 

After more than an hour’s march they reached 
the large plain; it was thickly wooded in several 
places; and they fully expected to see a deer or a 
stag rush forth. 


THE SORCERER.’^ 


8l 


u 


The greater portion of the day had passed be- 
fore they found game worthy of being hunted. 

Courage was beginning to fail them and they 
feared they would be obliged to return to the 
castle with empty game-bags, when suddenly 
the woods echoed with the cries of : “ Haro! haro! 
halilhali!” The horns sounded joyfully, and the 
hunters followed the track of a hind, which came 
from the woods and crossed the plateau like a 
streak of lightning. 

The hind ran towards the dark forest, and 
soon disappeared under the large trees. The 
hunters pursued it with increasing ardor; but 
as they could not agree about the roads, they 
soon separated into little groups. 

Sir Gouthier, three knights, the troubadour 
and five or six servants, had not lost sight of the 
deer. They followed it for more than half an 
hour, and were already congratulating them- 
selves on their success, when suddenly the be- 
wildered animal jumped to a side and fell into 
a narrow ravine. 

The knights and their companions could 
scarcely persuade their horses to go through 
this narrow defile, but once there, recommenced 
the chase with renewed vigor. 

Sir Gouthier ran on ahead, and kept up the 
excitement by crying he had again seen the 
deer, she was nearly exhausted, and could not 
escape them. 

He suddenly uttered a terrible shriek of fear 
3 * 


82 “the sorcerer.’^ 

and surprise ... A great bear rushed towards 
them, growling and showing his enormous 
teeth. 

At the unexpected apparition of this frightful 
beast, the horses were seized with terror, and 
tried to unseat their riders or to rush up the 
steep rocks. 

The black stallion had started like the others, 
but Wilfred turned him around immediately to 
make him face the danger . . . He had scarcely 
turned when he uttered a cry of agony and 
horror; glancing quickly, he saw Sir Gonthier 
stretched on the ground, the bear rushing at 
him, his paws raised as if to tear him to pieces. 
No one seemed able to go to his assistance; his 
companions and followers, some too far away, 
others like himself thrown on the ground. 
Wilfred jumped from his horse without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, snatched a spear from one of 
the pages, rushed to Sir Gonthier’ s aid, and fac- 
ing the bear, ran his spear into the animal’s 
heart so violently that the point came out 
through his back. 

The bear was mortally wounded, but growling 
and groaning terribly, he tried to strike the 
horseman; instead his nails caught in his doub- 
let, tearing it to shreds, and finally he fell on his 
side and died in a horrible convulsion. 

Wilfred, thinking that Sir Gonthier was badly 
wounded, knelt beside him, raising his head. 
With tears in his eyes, he complained bitterly at 
the fate of his generous host. 


THE SORCERER.” 


83 


u 


But Sir Gouthier arose slowly, saying: 

“Do not be frightened about me; my back is 
probably a little hurt, but it is caused by my 
fall; the bear has not touched me. O Wilfred, 
courageous young man, you are my saviour; 
your assistance has saved me from death; with- 
out your admirable presence of mind, my poor 
Basilissa would now be an orphan! How can I 
repay such a service? Ask for anything you 
wish: and if it is in my power I will joyfully 
grant it you.” 

Wilfred replied that he had only done his 
duty, and that the happiness of seeing his host 
safe and well was sufficient recompense. There 
was no time for anything more to be said, be- 
cause the Chevaliers and huntsmen had recovered 
and soon surrounded Sir Gouthier, looking at 
the gigantic bear, whilst the servants were with 
greatest difficulty preventing the dogs from 
spoiling the skin of the animal. 

The horn sounded at different intervals to 
collect the hunters, so they were soon all as- 
sembled in the ravine. 

Sir Gouthier told them what had happened — 
how the troubadour had saved his life, by trans- 
fixing the ferocious animal. Those who had 
witnessed the scene added their details, and 
lauded the young man’s courage. Perhaps some 
of the Chevaliers were jealous at the thought of 
so much praise being given to a troubadour of 
low birth; in any case they hid their chagrin, and 


84 “the sorcerer.” 

shaking Wilfred by the hand, showered him 
with thanks for preserving the life of their host. 

As the day was well advanced, they resolved 
to stop the hunt. Many cavaliers and huntsmen 
were wounded from falls, the horses were tired, 
and the bear was a prize large and rare enough 
to satisfy them. 

The huntsmen fastened the bear on the 
strongest of the horses. They entered Rotsburg 
in a triumphant manner, and in the evening 
celebrated the death of the monster, and Sir 
Gouthier’s safety, by drinking the best wine the 
cellars afforded. 

They returned slowly, because the horse 
which carried the booty could only go in a walk. 
They entertained each other for a long time 
with the courage and sang froid shown by the 
troubadour in saving the life of the Tord of 
Rotsburg. Then the conversation took another 
strain. 

Wilfred, who had slackened his horse’s pace, 
remained a little behind. He was thinking of 
Basilissa. He had saved her father’s life. 
What would she say? How would she show her 
gratitude? He already saw, in imagination, the 
young girl’s sweet glance and her celestial smile. 
How happy he felt at the thought of having pre- 
served the lovely young girl from so agonizing 
a grief! His heart beat with joy and hope. 

Then he reflected that he must leave the 
Castle the next morning, and would probably 


“the sorcerer.” 85 

never see Basilissa again. This anticipation 
cruelly affected him. But there was nothing for 
him to do; he was the victim of his horrible fate. 

At this moment Sir Gouthier, who had also 
slackened his gait, placed himself beside him, 
and asked, in a voice filled with emotion: 

“Sir, will you persist in your resolution? 
Must you go to-morrow?” 

“Yes, my lyord,” sadly answered Wilfred; “I 
must admit that it is very difficult to leave pro- 
tectors so generous and kind, but I am obliged 
to do so.” 

“Obliged? — that is to say you think so, because 
you fear that you will divulge the secret which 
you wish to guard. But we will keep our word, 
my daughter and I. Has either of us asked a 
single indiscreet question?” 

“No, my Bord, and I am exceedingly thank- 
ful to you; but you have heard, my Tord, how 
the knights, your noble guests, have questioned 
me. They have made me mention certain 
truths which I wished to hide, and to tell un- 
truths which humiliate me.” 

“But, Sir Wilfred, these knights leave to- 
morrow; then we will be several weeks without 
visitors, and you will not meet with anything to 
worry or inconvenience you. I already feel for 
you an unaccountable sympathy; your conversa- 
tion is a great pleasure to me. And now that 
you have saved me from a dreadful death, it will 
be a great grief to me to part with you to-mor- 
row. Remain some time with us?” 


86 


“the sorcerer.’’ 

“I cannot, my I^ord; an irresistible power 
governs me.” 

“Have you no pity on my daughter?” replied 
Sir Gouthier. “The naive child adores music 
and singing. You have made her happy teach- 
ing her something of your art: but that only in- 
creases her desire to learn more. She has 
begged me to persuade you to change your mind: 
It is in her name, sir, that I entreat you. Well, 
what do you say? You hesitate? God be 
thanked, you will remain, will you not?” 

“How long?” murmured Wilfred irresolutely. 

“A month, perhaps.” 

“Oh, no! the very thought frightens me.” 

“A couple of weeks, then?” 

“Wait, my Lord: — in order to please you and 
your lovely daughter, I will remain five days 
longer . . . Heaven grant that I may not regret 
it! — but on condition that after that time, you 
will make no further effort to detain me.” 

“Five days? that is very little,” said Sir 
Gouthier, “but I thank you for your compli- 
ance. No one will try to make you remain 
longer: here is my hand as a guarantee of my 
promise. How delighted Basilissa will be! I 
am impatient to tell her the good news. Do 
not mind, my valiant saviour, if I return to my 
friends. Courtesy and hospitality require me to 
remain in their company.” 

And pntting spurs to his horse, he rejoined 
his guests. 


THE SORCERER. 


87 


u 


n 


Wilfred, when left alone, began to regret the 
promise which Sir Gouthier had drawn from 
him — that is, he tried to think he was vexed at 
it — but in reality he was very happy; and when 
he thought that for five days he could bask in 
the sunlight of Basilissa’s smile, his face bright- 
ened w’ith happiness. 

At last the cortege crossed the river, and as- 
cended the heights of Rotsburg, to the fanfare of 
the horns. 


88 


“the sorcerer.” 


CHAPTER XIIL 

LOVE AND HONOR. 

When they entered the castle court they found 
Basilissa awaiting them, surrounded by her 
women and pages, attracted there by the lively 
noise of the cavaliers. 

Sir Gouthier dismounted, called Wilfred, and 
showing the monstrous bear to his daughter, told 
her the danger he had run, and how the trouba- 
dour had saved him from a terrible death. 

That Basilissa grew pale and shuddered at 
the recital astonished neither Wilfred nor Sir 
Gouthier; but, when they had finished she re- 
mained perfectly quiet. 

“Oh! my child,” cried the old Eord, very 
much affected, “here is your father’s saviour. 
Be grateful to him and thank him from the bot- 
tom of your heart; if it had not been for his 
courage, you would now be an orphan.” 

“I thank you, I bless . . . you,” stammered 
the young girl, bowing her head, without look- 
ing at Wilfred. 

On her father’s remarking it, she answered 
hesitatingly that the danger through which he 
had passed filled her with fear and made her 
head swim: besides, she had been indisposed all 


“the sorcerer.” 89 

day, and was far from well. A knight came 
just then, interrupting the conversation of Sir 
Gouthier and his daughter. 

Wilfred, believing in her sincerity, tried to 
console and encourage the young girl, saying 
her indisposition would only be temporary, and 
that to-morrow there would be no trace of it; 
but Basilissa appeared distrait, looking for her 
father, and giving only vague excuses. 

“Bah! bah! my child,” gaily cried Sir 
Gouthier, turning towards her, “you will be 
cured immediately, when you hear the good 
news: Master Wilfred is to remain five days 
longer with us.” 

The young girl trembled as if more frightened 
than ever; nevertheless she hid her agitation as 
much as possible, and forcing a smile, turned to 
Wilfred, saying: 

“Master Wilfred is very good to us; I thank 
him most heartily.” 

“Now gentlemen, I am going to make my 
toilet, and change this torn doublet; any of you 
who wish to follow my example and refresh 
yourselves will be shown to your rooms. Dinner 
in an hour.” After which he turned towards 
the Castle stairway. 

Basilissa followed him with her eyes, then as 
if she had something particular to say, ran after 
him and disappeared through the great doorway, 
leaving Wilfred, to his great surprise standing 
alone, without having addressed a word to him. 


90 ‘‘the sorcerer.” 

The young man remained with his eyes 
fastened on the ground. What could be the 
cause of this change towards him? Had he 
wounded her in any way? He vainly thought 
over his conduct. What was it then? A re- 
turn of Basilissa’s indisposition? Perhaps some 
of her father’s guests had condemned the friend- 
ship which she had shown to a poor troubadour, 
a man of low extraction: that was possible. 
He promised himself then to be more discreet 
and reserved, above all in the presence of the 
Lord of Rotsburg’s noble guests. 

He went slowly towards the Castle, in order 
to go to his room, intending to array himself in 
more suitable garments for the banquet, because 
he must sing to entertain the noble company. 
He must now exercise more humility, and above 
all avoid Basilissa’s glances, for fear that the 
troubadour should presume on the kindness 
shown him by his superiors. 

A short time afterwards he went down; but 
instead of entering the dining-hall, he opened the 
door of a small room and stood before the win- 
dow in a pensive manner. 

Soon he heard a light step on the stairway, 
and turned in time to see Basilissa’s smiling 
countenance. Perhaps he was mistaken, and 
she was going to speak to him with her usual 
amiability. But the young girl immediately re- 
traced her steps on seeing him, pretending to 
have forgotten something. 


THK SORCERER. 


91 


u 


) ) 


What could be the meaning of this strange 
conduct? Wilfred was so deeply affected by it 
that he threw himself on a chair, and bowing his 
head in his hands, remained in deep thought, 
until roused by a page, sent by Sir Gouthier, 
who was asking for him. 

On entering the banquet hall, he saw that all 
the cavaliers had taken their places at table. 
Basil issa was seated at her father’s side, richly 
dressed, and wearing the most beautiful precious 
stones. She looked queenlike: nevertheless she 
seemed sad, and her cheeks were the color of 
marble. Was she then really ill? 

“ Master Wilfred,” said Sir Gouthier, “these 
gentlemen, my noble guests, think that a young 
man who has saved the life of their host is de- 
serving of a seat at table with them. Come 
then, join us, and if you entertain us later with 
your beautiful songs and ballads, it must be as a 
companion and friend, not as a troubadour.” 

Wilfred stammered his thanks, and seated 
himself at the end of the table, a page pointing 
out his place to him. He was delighted to be 
so far away from Basilissa, and only to get a 
side view of her, as he would not then run the 
risk of encountering her glances, and thus 
neither he nor she would be obliged to exercise 
such strict surveillance to escape the criticism of 
the knights. 

The banquet lasted quite a while, the wine 
had untied their tongues; but when the last 


92 “the sorcerer.” 

course was served they all expressed great desire 
to hear some songs. 

Wilfred seemed pleased and tuned his lyre 
. . . But he suddenly saw Basilissa get up and 
leave the room, with her head bent. 

Sir Gouthier made his daughter’s excuses, 
saying she was ill. 

After a few minutes’ delay, they again begged 
Wilfred to sing. His song however was not 
very lively. They tried in vain to make him 
drink. Then, taking his lyre, he played a 
brighter air, and at his host’s request, repeated 
the eulogy on wine. The Chevaliers all admired 
his beautiful voice, and the expression which he 
knew so well to give to his songs But, Sir 
Gouthier thought that Wilfred was not in the 
mood for singing, because he showed less talent 
than usual. 

He finally asked the troubadour why he felt 
so. Wilfred answered that he was frightfully 
shocked when he saw his noble patron seized by 
the bear, and that he had not yet recovered from 
the effect: that he had only remained at table to 
entertain the noble assembly, and that he would 
feel grateful if they would permit him to retire. 

No one doubted his sincerity, and all begged 
of him to retire immediately. 

Wilfred van Isersteen scarcely closed his eyes 
the whole night. He continued to ask himself 
the cause of Basilissa’ s strange conduct. This 
worried him so, that he tossed all night on his 
bed. 


THE SORCERER. 


93 


(( 


n 


The mind of man is subject to a thousand 
fancies. Until morning, the young man thought 
that Basilissa felt only for him a sympathy on 
account of their mutual love of music and song, 
and was delighted not to see a more tender sent- 
iment. Now that the young girl by her peculiar 
conduct made him think she was vexed with 
him, he felt very much irritated, and could 
scarcely restrain his tears. 

Several times he reproached himself as weak, 
but would almost immediately relapse into a sad 
revery, as if Basilissa’ s affection had become a 
necessity to him. Towards morning, however, 
he fell asleep, completely overcome by fatigue. 

When he awoke, the day was already far ad- 
vanced; he mustered all his courage to hide his 
feelings, and on going down-stairs found the old 
lord and his daughter waiting breakfast for him. 
After saying good morning, he timidly asked 
the young girl if she had passed a good night, 
and if she felt better ? To his great surprise 
she answered him in a friendly way, and al- 
though still pale and rather silent, he thought 
he had been mistaken, and that her friendship 
for him was the same. This idea so fully re- 
stored his good humor that he proposed rehears- 
ing some of his songs with her after breakfast. 
But Basilissa seemed frightened at this proposi- 
tion, excused herself, saying her nerves were 
out of order and that she could not stand the 
noise, and that the sound of his lyre was partic- 


94 “the sorcerer.” 

ularly painful to her. A few minutes later, 
under pretext of having to make her toilet, she 
arose and went to her room. 

Sir Gouthier and Wilfred felt a certain un- 
easiness about her indisposition, and expressed 
the hope that it would not last long; they 
thought she was already better. As soon as 
Basilissa returned they would go out of doors and 
walk about; perhaps a little exercise would bene- 
fit her. 

Their conversation had lasted quite a while, 
when a servant entered, saying that her mistress 
begged her father and the troubadour not to 
wait for her, as she had a headache and wished 
to rest for a few hours in her own room. They 
saw, then, that they would be obliged to take 
their walk without her. 

Basilissa appeared at dinner; at first she seemed 
much better and forced herself to be bright and 
cheerful, though she soon relapsed into silence, 
and becoming pensive, seemed to grieve more 
and more as Wilfred tried to encourage and con- 
sole her. 

Dinner was scarcely over when she found a 
new pretext to retire. 

Things remained so during several days. 
When Basilissa was alone with her father, she 
was very sad, but she did not seem to desire to 
be alone; but when Wilfred spoke to her she be- 
came restless and agitated, and would leave im- 
mediately. 


THE SORCERER. 


95 


(( 




It soon became evident to Wilfred that the 
young girl avoided him. It seemed to him as if 
a feeling of hatred against him, had risen in her 
heart. This idea made him suffer terribly; and 
he too, seemed to evince an irresistible desire 
for solitude. When alone in his room, he could 
at least think of Basilissa and deplore her change 
of manner towards him. 

One more day, and he must leave! He did not 
congratulate himself now; on the contrary, this 
separation frightened him. ... If poor Basil- 
issa was threatened, perhaps, with some grave 
malady! If she were to die after his departure! 
O Heaven, what painful thoughts! 

Her father also was worried about her health, 
and spoke several times of calling a physician: 
But Basilissa opposed him, at least for the pres- 
ent; she begged for a respite of three days, then 
if not completely restored she would comply 
with his wishes. The delay which she had in- 
sisted on astonished both the Lord and the trou- 
badour, as it would be the day of Wilfred’s de- 
parture. Sir Gouthier did not know what to 
think; Basilissa’ s replies to his questions were so 
vague and so strange, that he did not doubt that 
her sickness had some secret cause; but the true 
reason was so opposed to the chivalrous manners 
of the times, so unnatural and so impossible, that 
it did not even suggest itself to him . . . Wil- 
fred’s departure was fixed for the next day. The 
evening before, they had determined to take a 


96 “the sorcerer.” 

last walk; but Basilissa excused herself, and re- 
mained in the house. When the old Lord re- 
turned after a walk around the park^ he went to 
his daughter’s room, and found her kneeling on 
her prie-dieu bathed in tears: her red eyes 
showed that she had been weeping. Seeing her 
father, she uttered a cry of anguish, and a feel- 
ing of shame caused her to bow her head and 
hide her face in her hands. Sir Gouthier ap- 
proached her. 

“Basilissa,” said he in a severe tone, “your 
conduct during the past few days is inexplicable, 
and pains me very much. A secret grief wrings 
your heart; you shed numerous tears in solitude, 
and your poor father, who wishes to console you, 
does not know the cause of your trouble. Has 
your father done anything to destroy your confi- 
dence? Has he lost his child’s affection before 
going to his grave? Alas, how embittered will 
be my last days by such an evil? You tremble, 
Basilissa. Ah! my poor child, how deeply I 
pity your unhappiness. I wish to know your 
trouble, to console you, and give peace to your 
heart. Ah! believe that your father loves you 
tenderly, and would accomplish even the impos- 
sible to relieve your troubles. Tell me, Basi- 
lissa, what grieves you ?” 

“Mercy, mercy, my dear father,” she cried. 
“ For the love of God do not ask me.” 

“Is it then so terrible?” asked Sir Gouthier. 

“Yes, yes, terrible, awful,” she replied. “It 


TH^ SORCERER. 


97 


u 


)) 


•will fill you with horror and embitter your life. 
Let me keep my fatal secret: I will try to stifle 
it in my heart.” . . . 

The old Lord was seized with a secret agony, 
and said in severe tone: 

“Basilissa, look me in the face! — right in the 
face, I tell you!” 

“I dare not,” murmured the young girl. 

“You dare not! What does this mean? 
Have you then committed some fault which you 
dare not acknowledge? Oh! my God, if I did 
not know the purity of yoiir heart, I might be- 
lieve you guilty of some bad action. Tell me 
then that I am mistaken — that you are still my 
good, my sweet, my innocent Basilissa.” 

The young girl appeared overcome, and sighed 
deeply, and remained silent. Sir Gouthier 
watched her a minute with increasing agony; 
then, his anger rising, he said in a hard voice: 

“Basilissa, you must speak. In virtue of my 
right as your father, I command you to tell me 
what makes you unhappy and ill. You are 
dumb? — then in the name of my unlimited affec- 
tion, and in the name of your dead mother, I 
beg of you, obey me.” 

The poor girl trembled in every limb, and 
bowed her head still lower. 

Sir Gouthier, deeply wounded at her resist- 
ance, took her by the shoulder crying: 

“Speak, speak: I am your master and your 
father — I wish it.” 

4 


98 “the sorcerer.” 

Basilissa, turning, fell on her knees, and rais- 
ing her trembling hands to him, said: 

“Pardon, O my dear father, forgive your poor 
child.” 

“Why, why?” 

“I love him — I love him to distraction. It is 
terrible, terrible; I have lost my mind — it will 
kill me.” . . . 

Sir Gouthier started: he looked at her per- 
fectly speechless, frowning as if it were incom- 
prehensible. A painful light seemed to enter 
his soul, and he asked in a stifled voice: 

“You love him? Whom do you mean?” 

“The troubadour,” she replied, in a tremulous 
voice. 

“Great God! Is it possible?” cried Sir 
Gouthier despairingly, “my daughter, the heiress 
to the noble house of Rotsburg, give her love to 
a peasant! Alas! alas! that I have lived long 
enough to see the escutcheon of my ancestors 
soiled by such a stain.” 

Crushed by grief and shame, he sank on a 
chair, with his head bent low, whilst great tears 
rolled down his cheeks. 

Basilissa had bowed her head on the prie-dieu, 
and was sobbing as if her heart would break. 

Her tears calmed Sir Gouthier’ s mind, and 
pity for the girl overcame his anger. He ap- 
proached his daughter, and taking her by the 
arm, raised her gently, saying in a sad, sweet 
voice: 


the: sorcerer. 


99 






“Unhappy child, how could you so forget the 
pride of your race? Come, sit down . . . You 
say that you love him? The troubadour? 
Does he know it?” 

“No father, he does not know it.” 

“And is he bold enough to dare speak to you 
of love ?’ ’ 

“Never, father.” 

“ And do you think he would presume so far 
as to love you, even in the depths of his heart?” 

“I do not know, father; I do not think so.” 

The Chevalier breathed more freely, as if re- 
lieved of a great weight. 

“Certainly, Basilissa, your love for a peasant 
is blameworthy; but if no one knows of it ex- 
cept your father, and you stifle and forget it im- 
mediately, there will only be the remembrance 
of a sad error. Take courage then, my child, 
your grief will not last long; he leaves to-mor- 
row, and we will never see him again. But 
what do I see ? — the idea of his departure makes 
you shudder.” 

“My father, O my father, mercy, have com- 
passion on your unhappy child!” she cried. 
“Do not let him go.” 

“Not let him go — O heaven!” 

“Ah, I will die, I will die!” 

“ Basilissa, unfortunate child, are you crazy?” 
murmured the old Tord, painfully surprised. 

She again held her hands towards him and 
said, with her eyes full of tears: 


100 


THE SORCERER. 


u 


n 


“ Father, let me confide all my trouble to you. 
I will hide nothing from you; but listen pa- 
tiently. If I am culpable, my will is not to 
blame. Ah! why did fate throw the troubadour 
across my path? . . . Before I had ever seen 
him, the sound of his voice had inspired me with 
a secret sympathy. When I saw and heard him. 
at the first banquet given to your friends, he 
seemed to me to be so handsome, so imposing, 
from that minute his image seemed always to 
follow me. I was neither frightened nor con- 
fused, because I only felt friendly towards him 
and admired his talent, though I often felt my 
heart beat when he glanced at me with his clear 
eyes. It was the morning of the hunt that I re- 
ceived my death-blow. A disquieting light 
seemed to flood my mind. Ah, father, you ad- 
mired him as much as I, when he conquered that 
unmanageable horse by his energetic will. But 
did you remark how his eyes flashed and his face 
brightened at his triumph? — how his attitude, 
his strong limbs, his touching voice, all united 
to give him the appearance not only of a noble- 
man, but of a prince, accustomed to command ? 
Did not you and your guests have the same 
suspicions? Acknowledge it, father!” 

“It is true,” involuntarily murmured Sir 
Gouthier. 

“Well,” she replied, “I only remained under 
the impression that Wilfred was a Chevalier of 
noble birth for about half an hour, and this 


THE SORCERER.’’ 


lOI 


( ( 


short time sufficed to change my friendship into 
an irresistible and overpowering love. Master 
Wilfred came toward us and proved that we had 
all been mistaken. He is the son of an obscure 
horse-dealer. Ah! how I have suffered from that 
moment! How my heart has been torn with 
shame! You have seen father, I became ill, I 
avoided Master Wilfred, I shuddered when he 
looked at me, I hid my agony and regret, I did 
not even thank my father’s preserver. I struggled 
against myself with great energy and despair; I 
prayed, God from morning until night to give 
me the strength to overcome my guilty inclina- 
tions . . . Alas, now he is going away! This 
separation, my dear father, is a death-blow to 
me: A secret voice seems to pursue me, murmur- 
ing in my ear: ‘ If he goes you will die!’ ” 

Sir Gouthier was very much touched. He 
understood, alas! only too well, that the poor 
child’s will was not at fault in this fatal entan- 
glement. He took her hand, saying tenderly: 

“ Basilissa, my dear' child, the evil is not so 
great as you think. You are more unhappy 
than guilty. Without doubt Master Wilfred is 
wonderfully endowed; his mind, his education, 
his courage, everything about him leads you to 
believe that he has been well reared; but as he is 
positively the son of a peasant, all these merits 
cannot ennoble him, any more than can the 
glorious fact of having saved your father’s life. 
Reflect calmly on this sad affair, and be reason- 


102 


THE SORCERER. 


i( 


n 


able. You say Master Wilfred’s departure will 
make you ill? All young girls think thus when 
crossed in love; but this is easily cured Basilissa, 
absence is a powerful remedy. Suppose Master 
Wilfred had gone a day or two ago . . You 
sigh and tremble? Do you think we can possi- 
bly keep him ? But, my poor child, this would 
be a continual source of grief for both of us, and 
an ineffaceable blot on our race.” 

“Ah! my father, my dear father, how un- 
happy I am!” groaned the young girl. 

“Judge for yourself, Basilissa,” replied the 
old chevalier, “suppose Master Wilfred remains 
here, how will you act towards him? Can you 
show your love for an obscure minstrel in the 
presence of your servants? Then, yes, then you 
would die of shame, and your old father would 
soon follow you. Whatsoever you may suffer, 
you must submit to the law of honor. Now no 
one will know of your fancy, and later you will 
bless me for giving you such counsel. Come, be 
courageous; and tell me that you recognize your 
’duty, and that you will fulfil it.” 

The young girl still resisted feebly, but she 
could find no further reason to excuse her weak- 
ness, and' finally promised her father that she 
would submit with resignation to her sad fate. 
She shed many tears and seemed to dread the 
separation ; but her duty was clearly marked — 
she would not be the one to tarnish the paternal 
coat of arms. 


“the sorcerer.” 103 

Following her father’s advice, she did not 
leave her room that day. However, she could 
not let him go without a few words of farewell 
to the man who had saved her father’s life. He 
was convinced that the young girl would be 
equal to the separation the next morning, and 
that she would take leave of the troubadour 
gracefully, addressing a few words of thanks to 
him. 

Sir Gouthier still grieved, but feeling more 
secure, embraced his daughter, encouraged her 
to preserve her strength, then went down stairs 
to his guest. He found him in the dining hall, 
as supper had already been announced. The 
young man bowed silently. He seemed very 
sad. The Chevalier, on his part, was not in- 
clined to conversation, as he now felt very much 
embarrassed before Wilfred, since receiving his 
daughter’s confidence. They took their places 
at table without speaking, and it was after the 
first course that Wilfred asked hesitatingly, and 
with apparent uneasiness : 

“How is the Lady Basilissa, my Lord? Will 
she not be down this evening? Alas! I trust 
the good God will preserve her from a serious 
illness 1” 

“She is not well, but it is nothing serious,” 
replied Sir Gouthier. 

“Have you not sent for a doctor, my Lord? 
Your daughter’s indisposition is very strange ; I 
tremble at the thought that it might be the fore- 
runner of a serious illness.” 


104 “the sorcerer.” 

“No, you are mistaken, sir; T am not worried 
about it.” 

They grew silent again, when supper was 
over. 

“That good and noble lady,” said Wilfred, 
as if finishing his refiections aloud, “has shown 
so much courtesy and friendship for a poor trou- 
badour who does not merit them ! My gratitude 
is infinite; her sufferings fill me with pity. You 
really think, sir, that her indisposition is not 
serious? Heaven grant that your suppositions 
are correct ! But, I have learned from a cele- 
brated physician that when a person who loves 
music is seized with a sudden distaste for it be- 
cause it agitates the nerves, that it indicates 
serious illness.” 

“That might be true in many cases,” an- 
swered SirGouthier, feigning indifference, “but 
you are certainly mistaken with regard to Basi- 
lissa.” 

“One does not risk anything in trying a rem- 
edy. I know of some herbs which are an in- 
fallible cure for nervousness, and, if you wish, I 
will seek them to-morrow. 

“To-morrow?” answered the Chevalier in a 
surprised manner. “Are you not going away 
to-morrow?” 

The young man blushed deeply. 

‘ ‘ Where are my thoughts ?’ ’ he sighed. ‘ ‘ Cer- 
tainly, certainly, I must go to-morrow !” 

“Is this an irrevocable decision?” 


THE SORCERER.” 


(( 


105 


“I must. I beg of you, my lyord, do not try 
to detain me.” 

“No, sir, have no fear, I have given you my 
promise. Do you leave early ?” 

“Immediately after breakfast, my Lord.” 

Sir Gouthier rose, and went towards the salon. 

“Wait here a minute, sir,” he said ; “I have 
something to settle with you, and to-morrow I 
might not find a favorable opportunity.” 

He disappeared behind a door, which led to 
the armory of the Castle. 

Wilfred looked after him with astonishment. 
Settle an affair with him? Did he suspect his 
love for Basilissa? Was he going to reproach 
him for it, and then punish him? 

Whilst the young man asked himself these 
questions. Sir Gouthier went to a small apart- 
ment at the end of the armory, and opening an 
iron-bound chest, took from it a handful of gold 
pieces, filled a purse, and put it in his pocket 

Entering the dining-room, he said to Wilfred: 

“ Sir, you entertained my guests, and your tal- 
ents have given me many pleasant minutes. It 
is a custom among knights to make troubadours 
handsome presents. But I must otherwise re- 
compense the man who saved my life. Do not 
then be astonished at my gift, and accept it as a 
pledge of my gratitude.” 

Saying these words, he put a heavy purse into 
the young man’s hands. 

Wilfred, prompted by a feeling of curiosity, 


io6 “thk sorcerer.” 

opened the purse; a pile of gold pieces glittered 
before his eyes, a great treasure for a poor trou- 
badour. He, nevertheless, contemplated this for 
an instant with a smile, which was both sad 
and ironical. 

The old Count could not understand this air 
of disappointment and contempt. 

“You do not seem satisfied, sir?” he said, 
“ Do you wish more?” 

“Money, money,” groaned Wilfred. “You 
pay me! You drag from me the happiness I 
might have had after leaving, thinking I had 
rendered you an important service.” 

“But what do you wish then?” asked Sir 
Gouthier, surprised. “If you wish another re- 
compense,” he continued hesitatingly, tell me, 
and if it is possible ” . . . 

Wilfred took two or three gold pieces, and re- 
turned the rest. 

“I beg of you, my Tord,” he said: “Oh do 
not refuse my prayer! it is a grief, a great grief 
to me to leave your castle, where I have received 
such generous hospitality. Now that, pursued 
by inexorable fate, I must recommence my wan- 
derings through the world, and suffer and endure 
humiliations, far from my country, my parents, 
and all dear to me, the thought of having saved 
your life, through gratitude and pure devotion, 
would be to me a sjource of courage and consola- 
tion . . . And. you wish to pay me! Oh, let me 
keep this memory pure and unsullied! Three or 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


) ) 


107 


four pieces of gold will, I assure you, keep me 
from want for a long time. Keep the rest, I beg 
of you, my Kord.” 

“What, take them back? Impossible. It 
would be accepting a present from your hands,” 
said Sir Gouthier, with a shade of displeasure. 

“Well, my lyord, believe me, I will not touch 
the money!” said Wilfred, his eyes glittering 
with a proud resolution. “All my life I will 
remember your generosity ; but my soul must 
also feel that there is a grateful remembrance of 
the poor Troubadour at Rotsburg. ’ ’ 

“You wish then to force my gratitude?” stam- 
mered Sir Gouthier, surprised at the young 
man’s commanding look. 

“Force you? no, my Ford; but you are too 
magnanimous to forget an unrequited service, 
even though rendered by a peasant.” 

“The money was given you; it belongs to 
you. ’ ’ 

“Then let us dispose of it together, my 
Lord,” said the young man. “Let Lady Basil- 
issa, who loves to succor the miserable, dis- 
tribute it in alms. It will give her great pleasure 
to bestow so many benefits, and the blessings of 
the poor may influence heaven to shed some 
brightness into my bitter life.” 

“But you are poor yourself,” said Sir Gou- 
thier, much moved. 

“Rich,” repeated Wilfred, with an enthu- 
siastic smile, “to know that Lady Basilissa 


io8 “the sorcerer.” 

would think of me each time that she put a gold 
piece into a pauper’s hand. It would be the 
greatest recompense to my sad soul.” 

The old Lord dried a tear. Although these 
words frightened him, he gave his approbation 
to the young man’s project, and took the gold, 
promising not to speak of this money to his 
daughter until after the troubadour’s departure. 
Then, under the pretext of his daughter’s being 
alone, he bade the young man good-night and 
left him. 

Wilfred remained alone tor a few minutes, 
then went to his room to abandon himself to his 
sad thoughts. 


THE sorcerer/’ 


109 


C( 


CHAPTER XIV. 

EOVE’S TRIUMPH. 

Wilfred van Isersteen was standing in the 
middle of the large hall, ready for departure, 
looking very sad and disconsolate. 

During breakfast Sir Gouthier had told him 
that Basilissa was still suffering, and she would 
only be down in time to say good bye. The old 
Eord went to seek his daughter, and now the 
separation was inevitable. 

Since his meditations during the long night 
the young man had schooled himself to his duty, 
and he believed himself strong enough to hide 
his agitation. His heart beat quickly at the 
thought of seeing Basilissa for the last time. 

He tried to muster all his courage, and proudly 
raised his head as if resigned to his fate. 

Hearing a noise on the stairway, he stepped 
back . . . and when he saw Basilissa on her 
father’s arm, he stifled an agonized cry. The 
young girl was pale, but her red eyes and de- 
spairing countenance would have wrung tears 
from the most obdurate heart . . . She lowered 
her eyes and seemed reluctant to enter the hall; 
but Sir Gouthier led her towards the trouba- 
dour, saying: 

“Sir, my daughter, although ill, would not 


no 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


)> 


allow you to leave us until she had once more 
thanked you, not only for your excellent lessons, 
but above all for the special service you have 
rendered her father. Excuse her if her adieus 
are said by me: her nerves have become so un- 
strung, that on this subject she is unable to con- 
verse. God keep you, and give you a pleasant 
voyage. ’ ’ 

The young man, during this address, had kept 
his eyes on Basilissa. She trembled in every 
limb, and could scarcely stand. As he said noth- 
ing, Sir Gouthier spoke severely: 

“Sir, have pity on my daughter. Since you 
must leave us, I beg you make your farewell as 
short as possible. ’ ’ 

In a voice full of emotion, Wilfred stammered: 

“Noble Eady, I am grieved indeed that I 
must carry with me the thought that you are 
ill! Never, never for a single moment of my 
life, can I forget your generous hospitality. If 
God hears my fervent prayers, you will soon be 
well and happy! Think sometimes of the poor 
troubadour. Good bye, good bye!” 

Tears streamed from his eyes, and as if this 
weakness had made him take a sudden resolu- 
tion, he walked quickly towards the door, with- 
out even pressing the extended hand of the old 
Eord. But cries of grief and distress caused him 
suddenly to return. 

He saw Basilissa struggling violently to escape 
from her father’s arm, in order to run to him, 
crying all the while: 


THE SORCERER. 


Ill 


(( 


5) 


“Stay, stay! . . . My dear father, keep him! 
Ah! do not kill me.'” 

At her cries, four or five servants rushed for- 
ward. Sir Gouthier feared this threatened out- 
burst, and wished to lead Basilissa away. But 
despair gave her superhuman strength; she re- 
sisted him, and cried whilst holding his hand: 

“Wilfred, pity me! Do not leave me! I will 
die . . . father, I am doing wrong, but he has 
my soul, my life! Make him remain! Wilfred, 
Wilfred.” 

At a sign from their Lord, the.astohished ser- 
vants came forward . . . But Sir Gouthier no- 
ticed that his daughter was fainting in his arms. 
In his turn he uttered a sad cry, fearing she 
would not recover. Nevertheless, the disgrace 
stifled' for a moment his paternal disquietude. 

Had not his daughter uttered in his presence, 
and in that of his domestics, cries that betrayed 
her weakness ? 

He lifted Basilissa in his arms, carrying her 
into another room, followed by all the servants. 
Wilfred was immovable; he was white as a statue, 
and from time to time a tear rolled from his 
eyes. At times the idea crossed his mind that 
he must fly from Rotsburg, but a mysterious 
power nailed him to the spot . . . Oh, God! 
was Basilissa dead ? 

For a moment he could only distinguish from 
behind the closed doors the cries of the servants. 
Soon he heard the ringing voice of Basilissa, 


II2 


“the sorcerer.” 

calling his name; he also heard the words, 
‘ ‘ love . . . die. ’ ’ 

From these words he realized that he had not 
suffered alone, that the young girl had shared 
his love. A happy smile parted his lips, and he 
cast a look of thanksgiving towards heaven, but 
this brief illusion soon vanished before stern re- 
ality. 

All sounds had ceased: no complaint, no sighs, 
no movement could he hear. What had hap- 
pened? The death-like stillness frightened 
him. They had taken her into another room, 
or perhaps she had again relapsed into uncon- 
sciousness. 

Sir Gouthier closed the door after him, no doubt 
to prevent Basilissa following. His brows were 
contracted, his lips drawn. He seemed much 
irritated. Upon perceiving the troubadour, he 
said abruptly: 

“Still here? I believed you already far from 
Rotsburg. Why have you not gone ? ’ ’ 

“Ah! how is the poor young lady?’* asked 
Wilfred, as if he had not understood the re- 
proach. 

“She is weeping over her fatal error and her 
lost happiness,” murmured Sir Gouthier. 

There was a moment’s silence. The Chevalier 
cast a piercing look at the troubadour, but his 
heart refused to bear malice against the man who 
had saved his life: he sat down and burst into 
tears. 


“the sorcerer. ” 1 1 3 

Wilfred came near, saying in a sad, sweet 
voice: 

“My Lord, you are unliappy, and you blame 
me. I cannot leave thus. I know why you 
weep; but I dare not ask in what way I have 
had the unhappiness to offend you?” 

“Alas!” said Sir Gouthier, “would to heaven 
t^at cruel fate had never led you to my castle! 
Perhaps you are not guilty — nevertheless your 
arrival at Rotsburg has been a curse for me and 
my poor child . . . You shake your head ? Do 
you not understand ? Must I then tell you all ? 
My child is forever disgraced; the shield of my 
ancestors is stained with an ineffaceable blot.” 

“Ah! my Lord, do not exaggerate!” burst 
forth Wilfred. I am going . . . ” 

“I exaggerate? — you go,” repeated Sir Gouth- 
ier, with sad irony. ‘ ‘ Have you not heard 
my daughter publish her disgrace in presence of 
our domestics? Will they ever forget that the 
heiress of Rotsburg has loved a troubadour, a man 
of low birth ? Go, sir, go to the other end of the 
world; my daughter will continue to deplore her 
unaccountable weakness, she will linger, and her 
poor father will go to his grave, there to await 
his wretched daughter. 

“Ah! has she not given her affections to the 
poorest of men — had he only noble blood in his 
veins! But to confess and proclaim before all 
our servants that she is dying for love of a peas- 
ant! What shame! what eternal grief !” 

4 * 


THE SORCERER. 


II4 




n 


Wilfred had listened in silence. Several 
times he had turned his eyes away, and passed 
his hand over his forehead, as if struggling 
against a terrible resolution. He said hesitat- 
ingly: 

“My lyord, if you are so unhappy ... if you 
believe that your pure and sweet daughter is 
dying of grief because she has bestowed her love 
on a peasant . . . ” 

“Yes, yes, for that alone. Is not that a suffi- 
cient reason? People like ourselves cannot live 
without honor.” 

“Well, my Lord, gratitude, compassion, love 
. . . tear from me a rash, perhaps a fatal con- 
fession. I do not even know — perhaps I may pay 
for it with my life, and even at a price' still more 
precious. Part of the secret of my life I am 
going to divulge. Perhaps my avowal may con- 
sole you, and reinstate the poor young lady, at 
least in the eyes of her father. Your daughter. 
Lord of Rotsburg, has not dishonored your 
escutcheon. The one whom she loves is not of 
obscure birth. He is the son of a nobleman.” 

“Of whom do you speak?” 

“I speak, my Lord, of myself.” 

“Merciful God, what do I hear?” cried Sir 
Gouthier. “You are of noble birth?” 

“Of a high and noble line,” assented Wilfred. 
“My father is a powerful Count, renowned for 
valor, and held in high esteem at court, on ac- 
count of the extent of his estates. I am his only 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


)) 


II5 


heir, and as such have the right to the title of 
Count.’’ 

Sir Gouthier’s eyes sparkled with delight: he 
rose as if to embrace the troubadour, but sud- 
denly reflected, reseated himself, and asked: 

“What is your father’s name? In what 
country does he live? You cannot reply to these 
questions? I understand: the same reason that 
forced you to deceive us as to your descent, 
causes you also to hide from us whence you 
come and who are your parents. I believe you 
without the slightest distrust. Bverything be- 
trays you of noble birth, with the education of a 
knight. But, alas! If you should continue to 
hide the name of your race, who in the world 
would accept the justification of my daughter? 
Would not our servants secretly ridicule our ex- 
planations? A troubadour who passed himself 
off for a nobleman, and of whom one does not 
even know the name!” 

“I beg you, have patience with me, my 
Lord,” said the young man, in a supplicating 
manner. “I humbly beg you, listen to my 
prayer. On your goodness depends all my hope 
of happiness . . . And perhaps you will pro- 
nounce at the same time the future of your 
noble and sweet Basilissa. If you refuse, I am 
indifferent to everything, and will abandon my- 
self to my fate with resignation.” 

“Speak, what have you to ask me?” mur- 
mured Sir Gouthier with curiosity. 


Il6 “the sorcerer.” 

“I have already told you, my I^ord,” replied 
Wilfred, “a sentence pronounced over me by 
a powerful enemy condemns me, under penalty 
of death, to wander unknown over the world 
for four years longer. If this merciless fate was 
not over me, I would make bold to say to you: 

‘ My Lord of Rotsburg, the first time my eyes 
rested on your charming daughter, my heart 
beat almost to bursting. Her simplicity, her 
sweet amiability, the sympathy that drew us 
irresistibly towards each other, soon kindled in 
me an ardent and pure love for Basilissa, and her 
sweet image has taken possession of me’ . . . 
Only this morning I learned that this sad adieu 
would not render me alone unhappy.” 

Sir Gouthier shook his head and said sinil- 
ingly: 

“Alas, Sir Wilfred — I call you so, although I 
do not know if such in reality is your name — 
how can that help me, since this sad secret 
hangs over your life? ” 

“This is my prayer, my Lord. Let me de- 
part. Once I am far away, tell your daughter that 
Wilfred, the one who loves her more than he can 
say, is of noble parentage, and that he has the 
right to bear the title .of Count. This thought 
will console her and give her strength to ac- 
complish the sacrifice asked of her. I have yet 
four years to wander unknown over the world. 
We are both young. For the indifierent the 
years will pass quickly; and for us who love. 


“the sorcerer.” 1 17 

they will also pass quickly, long as they may 
now seem. Well, my lyord, if you give me your 
consent, I will preserve pure and faithful my 
love for your daughter; and if I attain, without 
misfortune, the day of my freedom, I will run to 
you and on my knees ask the hand of Basilissa. 
My birth is illustrious enough to * honor your 
shield. I will be a devoted son, and will make 
your daughter happy. Ah! be good and mag- 
nanimous! Consent, and in four years the sweet 
Basilissa will become my well-beloved fiancee.” 

Sir Gouthier reflected a moment. Suddenly 
he rose, seized and pressed the young man’s 
hand. 

“Thanks, thanks,” said he. “It is as if for 
the second time you have saved my life. If 
Basilissa will wait . . . ” 

“God be praised!” cried Wilfred, overcome 
with joy. “She will wait. I feel it — the tie 
that binds our hearts is indissoluble! . . . Now, 
my Lord, I can leave. Bach hour of my life I 
will think of her with love and gratitude, and of 
you, my generous protector . . . my friend, my 
father.” 


ii8 


THE SORCERER. 




1 y 


CHAPTER XV. 

BASIUSSA’S WEDDING. 

He had already shaken hands with Sir 
Gouthier, who was accompanying him to the 
drawbridge, when the young man asked hesitat- 
ingly: 

“ And Eady Basilissa, can I not once more — ?” 

“ But the servants who are about her? It is 
too dangerous: let us avoid any new complica- 
tions.’’ 

“I hope, my Lord, you will tell her every- 
thing; you will console her and give her courage, 
will you not? She will understand that I am 
governed by fate. Now, I must go; heaven give 
peace to Rotsburg.” 

But he had scarcely turned towards the door, 
when Sir Gouthier held him back, saying: 

“Wait a minute. Eet me think . . . I be- 
lieve you, but my child’s happiness depends 
on it, the honor of my name . . . You are of an 
illustrious house? Your father is a Count?” 

“I neither wish, nor can deceive you, my 
Eord,” replied Wilfred, astonished at the singu- 
lar tone of this question. ‘ ‘ As soon as the four 
years have passed, I will recover my liberty. 


“the sorcerer.” 1 19 

Then I will tell you my father’s name — I will, 
perhaps, bring my parents to Rotsburg. My 
good and loving mother will wish to take her 
son’s fiancee to her heart. In any case you will 
be the judge, and if you find that I have exagger- 
ated my father’s nobility and power, refuse me 
the hand of Basilissa, and so punish me by the 
greatest unhappiness that I can receive! But I 
fear nothing — I have rather underestimated the 
truth.” 

“ Four years,” murmured Sir Gouthier, speak- 
ing to himself. “My poor child will languish 
and be miserable for four years!” 

He took Wilfred’s hand, saying to him: 

“ Since I believe your words, why should I let 
you go ?” 

“What do you wish, my Ford?” 

“ If I give you Basilissa for your wife will you 
remain at Rotsburg? You do not reply! I need 
a companion, a friend to brighten my solitude. 
I love you; your mind, your education, your tal- 
ent, will sweeten my life. Become my son, not 
in four years, but now, in a few days — as soon as 
we can prepare for the ceremony. . . . You 
hesitate, you refuse?” 

“Oh! my Lord,” answered Wilfred, “your 
kindness confuses me . . . But the fate which 
weighs on me? My name, which I cannot re- 
veal. The secret of my life which I cannot yet 
betray?” 

“Your secret will be respected.” 


120 


THE SORCERER. 


( ( 


n 


‘‘ And Basilissa?” 

“ My daughter also — I pledge her honor!” 

“And no one will question me with regard to 
my parents?” 

“No one.” 

“ I tremble with joy . . . and fear at the same 
time. God protect me! Am I dreaming? I, 
to become the husband of the sweet Basilissa! 
Thanks, thanks for a happiness so great, so un- 
expected!” ... 

“As to your family name,” replied Sir Gou- 
thier, “I have thought of that. Until you re- 
cover your liberty, you can give us a fictitious 
name. That will effectually stop all curious re- 
searches after your true name. See. . . . You 
will be called Wilfred van Dornedal. Do not 
forget it. . . . Follow me now, and in this way, 
to-day, immediately, we will put a stop to our 
grief, and the indiscreet curiosity of the serv- 
ants.” 

He opened the door, and ushered the young 
man into a large apartment, where his daughter, 
surrounded by her women, was lying on a couch, 
weeping. 

Raising his head, and with a proud look and 
solemn tone of voice. Sir Gouthier said: 

“Recognize in the supposed troubadour the 
noble and powerful Count de Dornedal, your 
future husband and master.” 

The servants stood respectfully and bowed 
low. 


“the sorcerer/’ 12 1 

Basilissa half rose and looked at the trou- 
badour, trembling with surprise and uncertainty. 

“Yes, my child,” said her father, “the young 
man who loves you so ardently, and to whom 
you have given your heart, is a Chevalier of 
noble birth. Be happy: in a few days the Count 
de Dornedal will call you his wife.” 

The young girl uttered a cry of joy and raised 
herself, extending her hands. 

“God ! My father, thanks,” was all she could 
articulate. 

She wished to throw herself on her father’s 
neck; but strength failed her, and she fell, per- 
fectly unconscious, in our. hero’s arms, smiling 
sweetly whilst her pale lips murmured in a low 
voice : 

“Wilfred, Wilfred, my betrothed !” 

A few days later the wedding of the supposed 
Count de Dornedal with Basilissa van Rotsburg 
was celebrated in the Castle chapel. At the re- 
quest of the bridegroom the number of guests 
was limited, but the wedding was quite brilliant. 
Wilfred sang the most beautiful songs, and 
touched all hearts by the charming poetry com- 
posed in honor of Basilissa and her father. 

During the first six months they were very 
happy. Wilfred seemed to have forgotten the 
terrible fate which menaced him ; he was always 
happy, and was so kind and considerate of his 
wife and his father-in-law that they thanked 
heaven. 


122 


TPIE SORCERER. 


u 




But from this time Wilfred took a decided dis- 
like to music and singing; Basilissa remarked 
that he seemed to be more and more tormented 
by a secret fear. She frequently surprised him 
plunged in deep thought, his eyes bent on the 
ground. If she approached him at these times, 
he started as if from a dream, and tried to ac- 
count for his preoccupation with some vague ex- 
cuse. The idea that her husband was not happy, 
and had trouble in which she could not partici- 
pate, deeply afflicted Basilissa ; but true to her 
promise, she did not ask him a single question 
on the subject ; inspired by her love for him, she 
affected a brightness that she was far from feel- 
ing, and appeared not to notice his actions. 

Towards the end of the year the young couple 
received a terrible blow to their happiness. Sir 
Gouthier was taken ill from a cold caught whilst 
returning from a hunt in a snow-storm. He was 
confined to his bed for three months, suffering 
acutely, rallying now and then, but still in dan- 
ger of death. Wilfred and Basilissa scarcely left 
his bedside from morning until night, watching 
him by turns and frequently together. They 
consoled and cared for him with so much devo- 
tion and such touching tenderness that the old 
man’s eyes would fill with tears of gratitude. 
How many times they thanked heaven for the 
slightest improvement ! No amount of care 
would benefit him, however ; Sir Gouthier must 
die. He embraced his dear children, gave them 


THE SORCERER.” 


123 


(( 


his blessing, recommended Basilissa to Wilfred’s 
tender love and care, and his eyes closed in 
death. 

The death of Sir Gouthier, who was esteemed 
and beloved by all, nobles, peasants and ser- 
vants, threw a cloud of sadness and mourning 
over Rotsburg for quite a while. 

Wilfred, as well as Basilissa, was a long time 
recovering from this blow. This sorrow was so 
natural that his extreme silence did not worry 
his young wife. As long as this trouble lasted, 
Basilissa felt her anxiety diminish. Now she 
made every effort to withdraw Wilfred from this 
sombre mood . . . but she did not succeed. 
She soon came to the conclusion that her hus- 
band suffered from a secret sorrow ; and as he 
frequently started in his sleep, and on waking 
uttered cries of anguish, it was evident that he 
was a victim to a strange and continued terror. 
As she did not doubt that Wilfred’s mental state 
was caused by the secret she had promised to re- 
spect, she could not question him on this subject, 
and always tried to distract and amuse him by 
being bright herself. But her husband’s agita- 
tion increased so, that he frequently passed 
whole days in prayer in the Castle chapel, or, 
thinking himself alone in his room, wept bit- 
terly. He gave up visiting, and seemed to 
shudder whenever the guard announced an ar- 
rival by sounding his horn ; he no longer 
hunted, refused all invitations from his neigh- 


124 “the sorcerer.” 

bors, and even gave up his walks, as if fearing 
to encounter some great danger outside of the 
Castle. Basilissa struggled for a long time, try- 
ing not to be discouraged ; but finally one day, 
sadder than usual, she succumbed, and, being 
alone in her room, wept copiously, thinking of 
the bitterness of her life. 

Her husband found her with her face buried 
in her hands, sobbing aloud. He was deeply 
moved, and feeling the greatest pity for her, 
seated himself beside her, taking her hand. 

“Basilissa, my dear wife,” said he, “am I 
making you unhappy? Oh! forgive me, I am 
unfortunate; not only my own fate weighs on me, 
but you, whom I love with all the strength of 
my soul, whom I admire as the personification of 
nobility, goodness and purity, to think that I 
force you to suffer also! I am weighed down 
by my secret, which I cannot betray, you know 
only too well . . . And the secret is, as it were, 
a gulf between our hearts, and makes our lives 
doubly painful. I beg of you, have patience; let 
me suffer without trying to console me, and 
suffer silently yourself until I recover my liberty. 
A year and a half from this time, if God in his 
mercy protects me, I will repay you a hundred- 
fold for all your sufferings: I will love and honor 
you, and consecrate my entire life to making you 
happy. ’ ’ 

“Ah! my poor Wilfred, I do not accuse you,” 
she murmured, pressing his hands. “If I could 
only see you smile sometimes.” 


the: sorcerer.” 


125 


(( 

“I do not wish to deceive you, Basilissa,” he 
said, very sadly. “My terrors increase as the 
time of my deliverance draws near. The danger 
which menaces me is so terrible, so frightful, 
that the agony may kill me before my deliver- 
ance.” 

“Oh! my God!” sighed Basilissa, weeping 
again. 

“Yes, my dear wife,” he replied, “the fate 
which menaces me is of such nature that I am in 
continual fear of its being realized; each day 
augments my danger, because the powerful 
enemy who pursues me must put an end to his 
work, or his victim will escape him. This con- 
viction worries me day and night, and makes me 
tremble at the slightest noise, disturbs my sleep, 
and makes me incapable of thinking of anything 
else. Ah! Basilissa, if you only knew the 
fate which hangs over me! The loss of my love 
would certainly be terrible, but if this curse 
should be accomplished, it would be more terrible 
still! You sigh, my dearest? I am breaking 
your heart: this secret tortures your loving soul. 
Oh! how many times I have determined to 
share my troubles with you! But this confidence 
might be my death-blow..” 

“No, no, Wilfred, keep quiet, I beg of you; 
do not betray your secret,” she cried, much 
frightened. “ A year and a half is a long time, 
but you will not see me in tears again, and I 
will not complain. I will be patient, and pray- 


126 , “thk sorcerer.” 

ing God to protect us, will confide in His 
mercy. And you also take courage, my dear 
Wilfred; whatever happens, believe me, I respect 
your grief, and will never censure you.” 

He thanked his good little wife, and from this 
time showed a little more confidence. Never- 
theless this favorable disposition did not last 
long. Some months later Wilfred was more 
than ever a prey to these frightful anxieties; a ter- 
rible thing to contemplate, seeing him wandering 
through the castle like a troubled soul, his eyes 
fixed, his hair standing on end, talking to him- 
self in a low voice. 

Nearly a year passed thus — still six months be- 
fore his cruel trial would be over. Certainly 
as his deliverance drew near Basilissa should re- 
joice; but could he endure the agony whilst 
waiting? He nearly always wished to be alone, 
grew thin and pale, and seemed always feverish. 
Wilfred felt doubly miserable. He, always so 
strong and hardy, even rash, now broken down, 
without courage, blushed at his own weakness. 
But he must struggle against his fate; he never 
forgot it. At night he dreamed that he had 
murdered his parents, and that in his blind rage 
he had mutilated their bodies, in order to steep his 
hands in their blood . . . Sometimes this fright- 
ful vision came to him during the day. 

Basilissa could not understand this state of af- 
fairs. Her husband sometimes mentioned the 
word sorcery to explain his agony, but that 


THK SORCERER. 


127 


(( 




struck her as impious. Was it possible that the 
good, noble, pious knight, Wilfred, had dealings 
with the evil one! No! no! and she tried to ban- 
ish this frightful thought, which continually re- 
turned. 


128 


THE SORCERER. 


(( 


») 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE HERMIT OF THE BI^ACK ROCK. 

One morning they were seated in the break- 
fast room, sad and buried in thought, when the 
watchman of the tower announced the arrival of 
a guest. As usual, Wilfred showed great un- 
easiness, and wished to leave the room; before 
that could be accomplished, however, the page 
ushered in Sir Oswald van Mavicksburg, a friend 
of the late Sir Gouthier. Wilfred, believing he 
had come to ask the hospitality of Rotsburg, 
wished to relieve him of his mantle and his arms, 
also to offer him refreshment; but he told them 
he had only come in passing to wish them good 
day, and after resting a few moments, would set 
out again. Wilfred called the butler to bring a 
jug of the best wine. Sir Oswald would not re- 
fuse to drink a glass with them. 

When the Chevalier was seated, Basilissa said 
to him: 

“Oh! my dear Lord van Mavicksburg, I am 
delighted to see you; since the bitter loss we 
have had, this is the first visit you have made to 
Rotsburg. What is the happy occasion that 
gives us the pleasure of seeing you ? Have you 
been to court?” 


THE SORCERER.” 


129 


u 


“No, madame,” he replied: “Asad circum- 
stance has led me to ask the help of the hermit 
of the Black Rock. It is from him I am return- 
ing, consoled and full of hope.” 

“The hermit of the Black Rock,” repeated 
Basilissa, in surprise. 

“What! you do not know this holy man,” 
said Sir Oswald. “The Black Rock is scarcely 
two hours’ walk from here, and if I mistake not, 
it borders on your estate. Do you no longer re- 
ceive any one at Rotsburg ? Do you no longer go 
to see your friends?” 

“We well know the Black Rock,” replied 
Basilissa, “but were ignorant that it served as 
the retreat of a hermit.” 

“It is astonishing,” said Sir Oswald; “for 
there is no question of the sanctity of his life, and 
he is renowned for the extraordinary power of 
his prayers. He cures not only most of the ills 
of the body by a single blessing, but he over- 
throws all the works of the evil one, especially 
necromancy, sleight of hand and witchcraft. 
Nothing resists his prayers.” 

These last words so excited Basilissa and Wil- 
fred that both of them fixed their eyes on the old 
Chevalier. 

“ You well know, noble Lady,” replied the lat- 
ter, “that Brmalinde, my youngest daughter, 
has always been strong and well? Alas! for the 
past few months she has been ill, and the physi- 
cians cannot discover the cause of her illness. 

5 


130 “thk sorcerer. ” 

She is pale and day by day grows thinner; never- 
theless she does not suffer and is not confined to 
bed. I scarcely dare say it — she is bewitched. 
I went to ask the help of the hermit. Indeed, 
this man is a saint: night and day he prays. He 
lives on herbs, sleeps on boards, and passes his 
life in meditation and expiation for the sins of 
man.” 

“Has he promised to cure your daughter?” 
asked Basilissa, with great interest. 

“He has only promised to pray for her; but 
he consoled and encouraged me. I am con- 
vinced that to him I will owe the salvation of 
my child.” 

“And this holy man lives at Black Rock?” 
thoughtfully asked Wilfred. 

“Yes, in the very heart of the rock, several 
hundred feet above the water, in a kind of 
grotto. One could not find him did not a 
wooden cross indicate his retreat.” 

After a little more conversation, the Chevalier 
took leave of them, the Master of Rotsburg 
conducting him to the drawbridge. 

When he returned, Basilissa asked her husband 
if he would not see the hermit of the Black 
Rock, in the hope he would obtain aid and con- 
solation. Wilfred feared this proceeding. If it 
should irritate the mysterious power that , had 
possession of him ! But Basilissa used all her 
eloquence to persuade him that the prayers of 
this holy man would assure him the protection 
of God. 


THE SORCERER. 


u 


I3I 


He finally listened to her, and promised to go 
there the next day. But Basilissa, carried away 
by the hope of his deliverance, besought him to 
undertake this short journey immediately. The 
day was not half over ; in an hour he would be 
at Black Rock, and no matter how long he re- 
mained with the hermit, he could certainly re- 
turn before nightfall. 

Wilfred followed her suggestions, gave orders 
that two horses should be saddled, and he was 
ready to depart. 

Basilissa embraced him with happy fore- 
bodings, and tried to inspire him with confidence. 
She went with him as far as the ramparts, en- 
couraging him and waving her handkerchief 
until he was out of sight. 

Wilfred, accompanied by a page, followed the 
course of the river, so absorbed in thought that 
he let the reins fall on the neck of the horse. 

After riding for about an hour and a half in a 
deep valley where a foaming river dashed be- 
tween two rocky hills, the latter haunted by 
crows and birds of prey, he reached a wild tract 
where the rocks seemed to have been thrown up 
by an earthquake. The river noisily struck the 
immense boulders that came in it's path. The 
waters parted in twenty meandering streams, 
gliding like snakes between the rocks, reuniting 
farther down in a mighty torrent. 

In the midst of this deserted spot, the Black 
Rock was the most desolate of all, reaching to- 
wards heaven its sombre crest. 


132 “thk sorcerer.” 

About a hundred feet above the water, Wilfred 
noticed an immense black hole in the side of 
the rock, near which was a wooden cross, fast- 
ened in a cleft. He was puzzled how to climb 
this steep ascent, when he perceived a rugged 
path dug in the rock. 

He could not explain to himself the terror with 
which this visit inspired him. It was as if some 
mysterious influence was forcing him to stop; 
but was this some powerful enemy, or a heavenly 
warning? He gathered his scattered courage, 
and determined, cost what it would, to prove it. 

. Giving orders to the groom to await him in a 
shady spot, he boldly climbed the rock, finally 
reaching the grotto. It was only an opening in 
the rock, forming an arch. Wilfred stopped and 
cast a timid look towards the interior; but the 
sun was low and he could scarcely distinguish 
the different objects. 

The first thing that met his eyes was a kind 
of whip, with leather thongs having metal 
points, still reeking with blood.* Although Wil- 
fred did not see the hermit, he felt he should find 
him there, since he humbled himself so cruelly. 

The Chevalier hesitated to penetrate further; 
scarcely had he taken a few steps, when he drew 
back in terror. In a dark corner a human body 
was extended lifeless, dead perhaps, on a heap of 
dry leaves. The face was buried in the leaves, 
and he made not the slightest movement. 

The stupefied Wilfred contemplated it for an 


“the sorcerer. ” 133 

instant; then, to satisfy his doubt, cried in a 
loud voice: 

“Are you asleep. Holy man?” 

The hermit moved his arm, and as far as Wil- 
fred had confidence, he tried to help him; but 
only succeeded with difiSculty. The old man 
repulsed him with a gesture, and leaning on his 
elbow; said: 

“No, let me bear my own troubles. I am 
weak, my limbs are feeble, but that is nothing. 
What brings you here, my Tord?” 

“They extol the power of your prayers, rever- 
end father,” said Wilfred. “Your blessing 
cures not only the ills of the body, but destroys 
also the work of the devil. A frightful curse 
hangs over me; I come to beg — ” . . . 

The Chevalier’s voice seemed strangely to agi- 
tate the hermit. He listened a moment, his 
eyes sparkled; using all his strength to rise, he 
seized Wilfred’s hand and drew him to the en- 
trance of the cave. 

“Under the light!” he burst forth; “that I 
may see your face.” 

Scarcely had he seen him than he raised his 
eyes to heaven, crying with joy: 

“He lives! he lives! Wilfred van Isersteen.” 

“Oh! my God! Nyctos! . . . You are Nyctos 
the sorcerer,” cried the Chevalier, starting back 
with astonishment. 

“Your arrival delights me,” cried the old 
man. “What consolation! I have often trem- 


THE SORCERER. 


134 


u 


)) 


bled and wept, fearing your fate bad overtaken 
you.” 

“You do not then see what is passing?” 
murmured Wilfred. 

“No, my Lord,” replied the hermit; “I no 
longer know anything that passes on earth. 
The sorcerer is dead in me. I struggle to purify 
myself from sin, and I hope God will bless me 
before I die. But, Sir Wilfred, explain your un- 
expected appearance in this almost inaccessible 
grotto. What has sent you to this wild retreat? 
The mercy of God ?’ ’ 

“Or the devil, who wishes to ensnare me,” 
sighed Wilfred. 

“No, fear not, my Lord: The prayers of a 
poor hermit under the protection of the sign of 
our redemption, are constantly uttered in this 
grotto. It is not at Black Rock the evil spirit 
will prevail ... I am weary. Sit on that 
large stone and tell me by what strange combi- 
nation of circumstances I have the honor of 
seeing you.” 

Wilfred related the events of the past four 
years. The recital drew many a groan from the 
hermit; but when he was assured that no one 
about knew the name of the Chevalier, and that 
his noble and faithful wife respected his secret, 
his anxiety disappeared, and he only saw in the 
succession of events, the manifestations of the 
All-Powerful. Wilfred finished his recital in 
these words: 


THE SORCERER.” 


135 


(C 


“And, reverend father, the nearer the end, 
the more difficult my life becomes. A nameless 
terror makes me tremble night and day. I have 
a presentiment that I will not accomplish my 
deliverance. The slightest noise causes my 
diseased imagination to fear the appearance of 
my parents. I see them; they are there before 
my eyes; I have murdered them, their blood 
stains my hands ... I suffer a thousand deaths. 
They have boasted of your holy life and powerful 
prayers: I have come to beg them. Oh! help 
me! banish the curse that hangs over my life, 
and give my soul the peace it has lost. Other- 
wise I am lost. You are my only refuge. Have' 
pity on me. I will bless you forever.” Wilfred 
threw himself on his knees before the hermit, 
his hands raised in supplication. The old man 
lifted him gently, saying: 

“You implore my aid and my prayers. Ah! 
Sir Wilfred, you do not then know that every 
act of my life is consecrated to you. I have vis- 
ited Rome. I have watered with my tears the 
Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. I have suffered 
hunger and thirst in the desert. It is six months 
since I returned from the Bast. I have chosen 
this grotto in which to pray and mortify the 
flesh . . . For whom do you think I have borne 
all this? For you, for you alone, my Bord! Do 
not then ask my prayers.” 

“For me?” murmured Wilfred. 

“For your safety, to avert the the bitter fate 


136 “the sorcerer. ’ ’ 

that threatens you, until I know the hour of 
your deliverance has struck.” 

“Generous man,” cried the Chevalier. 
“How can I testify my gratitude? Let me kiss 
your hand.” 

“I do not deserve such thanks, my Lord. 
There is also selfishness in all that I have done. 
My salvation depends on your deliverance.” 

“ Your salvation ?” 

“If your terrible fate is accomplished, if you 
steep your hands in your parents’ blood, my soul 
will be damned beyond redemption.” 

“But you are mistaken, father: the soul of 
your friend, perhaps — that of the impious sor- 
cerer who threw the spell over me.” 

“I lied!” answered the hermit; “I lied to you. 
The fear of your first vengeance, the shame of 
my crime, have made me disguise the truth. 
Now I no longer fear death, and so think not of 
human respect. The sorcerer is no other than 
Nyctos.” 

“Oh! heaven, what do I hear,” cried Wilfred, 
rising precipitately. “I have kissed the hand of 
the man who would make of me a parricide. 
Ah! you will at last be punished, son of hell! 
Every drop of your blood will not satisfy my ven- 
geance.” 

And stepping back, he drew his sword to 
thrust it through the hermit . . . But the latter 
bared his breast and looked at the furious man 
with so radiant a smile that Wilfred drew back, 
motionless. 


THE SORCERER. 


137 


(( 


)) 


“Strike, my kord,” said the old man, “I de- 
serve it. If I die by the hand of the victim of 
my wickedness, God imposes this last act of ex- 
piation, and I will go to my grave with some 
hope of obtaining his pardon. Do not hesitate. ” 

Wilfred, conquered by this strange resigna- 
tion, felt his ange^ disappear, and was much 
frightened at the thought of the murder he had 
been on the point of committing, on a man who 
by his long repentance had no doubt been for- 
given by God. 

He placed his sword in its scabbard, and fell 
on the stone, burying his face in his hands. 

There was a moment’s silence. 

“My Lord Count,” replied the hermit, “why 
do you despair? If you had the strength to re- 
sist shedding my blood, it was because our 
Heavenly Father wished me to live, to assist 
you in the end. If we both struggle' against 
our common enemy, our chance of triumphing 
must be greater on account of our united 
strength.” 

“ Horrible alternative!” muttered Wilfred, “to 
implore the aid of the man who cursed me . . . 
But since you are sanctified, and now can by 
your prayers break your own curse, do so. ’ ’ 

“ I cannot.” 

“You are then powerless for good, and so 
powerful for evil ?” 

“Prayer is the only strength. You are wrong 
my Lord, to have so little confidence. I, on the 


THE SORCERER. 


138 




contrary, see in all that happens signs of a su- 
perior protection, and my hope increases as the 
supreme moment approaches. And even what 
has happened to your parents since your depart- 
ure . . . ” 

“My parents,” interrupted Wilfred. “Do 
you know how they have borne my loss ? Are 
they still living?” 

“About a year ago,” answered the old man, 
“after my return from the East, I visited Iser- 
steen as a pilgrim, and saw your parents.” 

“God be praised! And how was my poor 
mother? Had my father aged very much? 
Were they both well?”- 

“Yes, as well as possible, considering their 
grief. Time has softened their despair a little, 
although each hour of the day they grieved for 
the loss of their well-beloved son.” 

“Ah! how happy I am,” cried Wilfred. “If 
my deliverence is accomplished, I can see and 
embrace them again. And do they think I am 
dead?” 

“No, that thought would have killed them. 
After your disappearance they sent servants in 
every direction to search for your body; but 
these men found your horse at Harlebeck and 
knew that you had gone from the Eastern coast 
disguised as a troubadour with a lyre on your 
shoulder. As soon as this news was brought, 
your father started in search of you. He even 
traversed parts of the Netherlands and Germany, 


THE SORCERER.” 


139 


u 

sending faithful messengers in all directions: 
that shows God is protecting you, no one could 
trace you . . . Later a certain Lord of Hoock- 
stead came to tell them he had seen you at 
Arlon, where you were contending for a singing 
prize at a* wedding feast. Your father im- 
mediately started for Arlon, and passed several 
weeks travelling the country between the Meuse 
and the Rhine. Who knows? he might even 
have passed Rotsburg. But a higher power had 
protected you from his searches; so he returned 
home after his fruitless effort.” 

Wilfred’s heart beat quickly at this, the first 
news he had received of his parents. He was 
happy; joy sparkled in his eyes. But there was 
yet another cause for it. The old man had said, 
if there was an occult power trying to accomplish 
his fall, there was also a higher power watching 
over him. And now he hoped with the hermit 
that this protection would be his until the day 
of his deliverance. 

For more than an hour Wilfred continued to 
question the hermit about his parents and coun- 
try. He asked about the smallest details. His 
imagination carrying him even to Isersteen. 

The hermit so encouraged him that Wilfred 
forgot his terrors. The old man repeated that 
he must have confidence in God, and in the effi- 
cacy of prayer. Everything seemed to show 
that he would be able to await the hour of his 
deliverance. Wilfred scarcely knew himself; 


140 “the sorcerer.” 

his heart beat freely, and he felt a sincere 
gratitude towards the man who had helped him 
gain this peace of soul. He thought of his good 
Basilissa, and the joy she would feel. 

When ready to take leave of the hermit, he 
said: pressing his hands: 

“Venerable father, at this moment I am strong 
and courageous, but who knows, if once away 
from you my terrors may not return ? If so, will 
you permit me to return, and draw from you 
words of consolation and hope.” 

“Return, Sir Wilfred, as many times as you 
wish. We will pray together. Go, heaven will 
not abandon you.” 

Wilfred went into the valley, called his groom, 
and started for Rotsburg. How inviting and 
beautiful wild nature seemed to him now! How 
magnificent the sunset! What a superb sight 
this foaming and groaning torrent! 


THE SORCERER.” 


u 


I41 


CHAPTER XVIL 

THE CRISIS. 

For more than six weeks Wilfred felt great 
confidence in heaven’s protection. He was quite 
bright again, and several times, yielding to his 
wife’s prayers, had tuned his harp and sung the 
most beautiful ballads. 

Basilissa was happy, and thanked God for 
having restored to her husband the hope of de- 
liverance and peace of heart. But little by little, 
his sleep was again troubled by frightful dreams, 
and his terrible thoughts threw him into fright- 
ful agony. The only way to chase away this 
frightful dream, was to go to the hermitage. So 
Wilfred went nearly every week to the grotto of 
the Black Rock, and always returned stronger 
and more confident. 

Nevertheless, as the hour of his deliverance 
drew near, these intervals of tranquillity became 
shorter, and for the last few months he was 
assailed by these terrors, day and night, and in 
spite of the consolations and encouragements of 
Basilissa, he could not overcome these feelings. 

At last the long hoped for and dreaded day of 
Saint Corneille arrived. The next day, if he 
could escape the curse, he would recover his lib- 


142 


“the sorcerer.’’ 

erty . . . But he knew that the influence of the 
charm was acting on him more powerfully than 
ever, from his feverish agitation and the horrible 
visions that were continually passing before his 
eyes . . .He passed the greater part of the day 
kneeling with his wife in the castle chapel, but 
he tried vainly to calm himself in prayer. Chills 
ran through his body, mysterious voices seemed 
to murmur in his ears that the united efforts of 
Basilissa and Nyctos could not preserve him 
from his irrevocable fate. 

His agony became insupportable; he was con- 
vinced that his fate would be accomplished that 
night, and although Basilissa would make every 
effort to help him, she could not prevent it. 

“Ah! Basilissa,’’ he sighed, “I am so un- 
happy. My mind is so troubled. If you only 
knew my terrible agony, my torture, if you 
could only imagine what an awful fate threatens 
me! I cannot tell you . . . Ah! why did I not 
go yesterday to Black Rock? Why did I not 
put myself under the hermit’s protection this 
terrible night? He might have inspired me with 
some hope, and protected me from the frightful 
phantoms that pursue me.” 

“But, perhaps God himself has given you this 
happy thought,” cried Basilissa. “ It is not too 
late. I do not think, Wilfred, that your fear has 
any foundation; it is only a temptation of the 
evil spirits: but, since the hermit’s presence 
might relieve you from: suffering, why do you 
not go to him ?” 


“thk sorcerer.” 


143 


“Well, I will. Ah! how weak lam! Thanks 
Basilissa, for your good advice. I can still 
reach Black Rock before night. There, on my 
knees, by the hermit’s side, I will await with 
confidence to-morrow and the hour of my deliv- 
erance. ’ ’ 

Reassured and comforted by this resolution, 
the Chevalier pressed Basilissa to his heart, left 
the castle, and galloped towards the Black Rock 
. . . Very late that evening, Basilissa was 
seated near the table in the dining-room, her 
hands joined in prayer. 

It had been a very warm day; great clouds had 
gathered since midday, and there was every 
reason to suppose that a severe storm was about 
to burst upon them. Streaks of lightning darted 
through the sky, and terrible claps of thunder 
shook the castle to its very foundation. A hard 
rain dashed against the windows. 

Basilissa was thinking of her husband. The 
storm had disturbed her mind, frightful agony 
made her shudder; but she tried to console her- 
self, thinking that by this time Wilfred ought to 
be at Black Rock, under the hermit’s protection. 
The storm soon cleared away, the flashes of 
lightning were less frequent, the rolling of the 
thunder was only heard in the distance, though 
the rain continued to fall in torrents. 


144 


“the sorcerer.’'^ 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

THE TWO PITGRIMS. 

Suddenly the Castle horn sounded, announc- 
ing arrivals. This surprised and frightened 
Basilissa. Had her husband returned in this 
frightful storm, instead of seeking the shelter 
of the hermitage? 

Her uncertaintly was soon satisfied. A page 
came to tell her that two pilgrims, worn out by 
fatigue and thoroughly drenched by the storm, 
begged hospitality for the night. They seemed 
old, but respectable people. Basilissa consented 
to receive them, and gave orders to the page to 
invite them in. The pilgrims shortly appeared 
and thanked her for her hospitality. She made 
them sit dowm, and ordered supper, watching 
them curiously all the while. 

The man was tall and fine-looking; in her 
youth the woman must have been handsome, for 
in spite of wrinkled cheeks, her regular features 
showed traces of great beauty. Surely these 
people must be well born. 

At first Basilissa only spoke of the storm, and 
assisted them to take off their wraps, whilst the 
servants brought dry clothing. 

When they had reseated themselves and were 


SORCERER.” 


145 


a little rested, Basilissa asked who they were, 
and how they came to arrive so late at Rotsburg? 
Perhaps they were wandering in a strange 
country: what was the object of their pilgrimage, 
Cologne or Aix-la-Chapelle? 

“We were not lost,” the man relied. “The 
storm overtook us on the road to your hospitable 
Castle. We sought shelter in an opening in the 
rocks. Night fell, and again we started in spite 
of the storm . . . We are not only travelling 
through populous towns and countries, but 
through even the most isolated castles and for- 
saken countries, to find the object of our search. 
Alas! our efforts so far have been in vain; we 
are losing courage, and fear we will go to our 
graves without again seeing our child, our only 
son, whom we have lost. Perhaps he is dead.” 

“No, no, do not lose hope,” said his wife, 
interrupting him. “Our son lives — my mother’s 
heart makes me feel it.” 

“You have lost your child?” said Basilissa. 
“How unhappy you must be! And you are 
looking for him in this desert? Do you live far 
from here?” 

“I live in Flajiders, noble madame; lam a 
Chevalier and Count; my name is Foucard van 
Isersteen. ’ ’ 

“lam honored in receiving such noble pil- 
grims,” said Basilissa, “consider yourselves at 
home in my Castle, my Rord Count and noble 
Countess. My husband, the Count de Dornedal- 
5 * 


146 


“thk sorckree^.’’ 


Rotsburg, is unfortunately away; but be returns 
to-morrow morning, and will take pleasure in 
showing you all the hospitality in his power . . . 
You are looking for your child so far from your 
own country: has he been stolen from you?” 

“It is a sad and improbable history,” an- 
swered the pilgrim. “We have lost our son. 
He was handsome and strong, skilful in all 
manly exercises, courageous, good and loving. 
We loved him as the apple of our eye. One day, 
after having embraced us tenderly, he left us to 
go to the hunt, and since we have never laid 
eyes on him. We have searched in vain for 
him. I have made several voyages myself . . . 
The uncertainty and grief has destroyed our 
happiness; and now I, with his poor mother, am 
wandering almost hopeless around the world.” 

“What could have happened to your son at 
the hunt? An accident,” sighed Basilissa with 
sympathy. 

“My husband forgot to tell you, madame, that 
since then we have only once received news of 
our child,” said the Countess van Isersteen. 
“We know for certain that our son sold his 
horse at Harlebeck, and at that time he was free 
and in good health. How he could do so — he, 
the most loving of sons ? How he had the heart 
to grieve us so I cannot understand. Who can 
explain this most incomprehensible mystery? 
And what is more strange, our son did not seem 
in the least troubled by being so far from his 


147 


“the sorcerer.” 

country, because a Chevalier, one of my friends, 
saw him at Arlon in the midst of a group of 
troubadours . . . ” 

“ Of troubadours?” murmured Basilissa. 

“ Yes, noble I/ady, and to the grief of having 
lost him is added the thought that he is ungrate- 
ful and has forgotten us.” 

“Oh! Foucard,” cried the Countess, raising 
her hand in a supplicating manner, “do not 
wring my heart so. Why in our ignorance 
should we accuse Wilfred of ingratitude?” In a 
bewildered manner, Basilissa cried: 

“Wilfred? Your son is called Wilfred?” 

But a sudden reflection and the fear of com- 
mitting an imprudence, enabled her to overcome 
her emotion. She reseated herself and said, with 
a constrained smile: 

“And so he is called Wilfred? Be not as- 
tonished at my surprise on hearing this name: it 
recalls certain memories. I had a brother called 
Wilfred. Alas! he died on the battle fleld in the 
Emperor’s service . . . And your son has been 
seen in a troubadour’s costume?” 

The Count and Countess van Isersteen looked 
at her in astonishment. She seemed to hide a 
secret, and awakened a suspicion that she knew 
their son, or at least knew where he lived. 

“Ah, noble Eady,” said the CoUntess, “no 
doubt you can give us news of our son. His 
name alone has touched you deeply. The re- 
collection of your brother’s, death could not pro- 


148 “the sorcerer.’’ 

duce such emotion. You are happy; make us 
the same. Be generous, have pity on the unfortu- 
nate parents who have languished for five years. 
Tell us that you know our child.” 

Basilissa tried to escape from telling the truth 
by giving vague explanations. She reflected 
that more than once she had understood from 
her husband’s words that his parents knew no- 
thing of him. If she were to tell them that the 
kord of Rotsburg was their son Wilfred himself, 
would she not compromise her husband’s deliv- 
erance? To-morrow Wilfred would return free, 
delivered from his powerful enemy. He would 
be wild with joy at the sight of his parents; but 
to reveal his secret to-day might be fatal, and 
perhaps even his death-blow. 

Strengthened by these reflections, Basilissa re- 
sisted the pilgrims’ prayers, and Anally con- 
vinced them that she knew nothing of their son, 
and that her emotion was caused by the remem- 
brance of the death of her brother, whom she 
tenderly loved. 

The check to their hopes so grieved the poor 
pilgrims that they begged leave to retire. 

Basilissa showed them to a handsome room. 
When they expressed their admiration of the 
beautiful apartment and the richness of the fur- 
niture, she smilingly said: 

“No, there are not many such rooms at Rots- 
burg — in fact this is the only one; but my hus- 
band would not forgive me, did I not show you 


“the sorcerer.’’ 


149 


all possible honor. You are in my own room, 
my guest-rooms are not ready. No, no, do not re- 
fuse it. I retire very late to-night, and will go 
to the little room. Do not thank me. God 
bless your slumbers. ” And without listening to 
more, she went down stairs. 

She sat in the same place, remaining there 
about half an hour, with her head buried in her 
hands, reflecting on this strange event. These 
pilgrims were her husband’s parents, the Count 
and Countess van Isersteen. She had then dis- 
covered the secret wnich Wilfred had kept so 
long. His true name was Isersteen, and his 
father’s castle was in Flanders. But what was 
the cause of his flying the country and giving 
his parents so much trouble? A curse? What 
was its nature, and uttered by whom ? And how 
happy he would be to-morrow to see his parents. 
There was no doubt of it, she thought, since he 
would be free. She had clearly understood from 
his heart-rending cries, that he still cherished 
great love for his parents. 

Little by little her mind became calmer, and 
she rejoiced at the thought of Wilfred’s happi- 
ness when he pressed his mother to his heart. 

She went up again to reassure herself that her 
noble guests were comfortable, and hearing their 
regular breathing through the half-open door, 
she concluded they were sleeping soundly. 

She then told her servants to retire, after 
which she opened one of the dining-room win- 


150 “the sorcerer.” 

dows overlooking the valley. The weather had 
cleared. The moon shone brightly in the bine 
sky, and the fresh air which penetrated the room 
was full of sweet odors. After enjoying its 
freshness for a moment, she decided not to retire, 
but to pass the night in prayer. Teaving the 
window open, she lighted a lamp and returned 
to the chapel, and kneeling on her prie-dieu, 
begged the good God to cure her husband. 

She was still in prayer when Wilfred accompa- 
nied by his servant was riding by the river return- 
ing to Rotsburg. He was tired, and completely 
discouraged and a prey to indescribable fears. 

He had not found the hermit in the grotto, 
and had vainly waited several hours for him. 
The storm had overtaken him, and he was com- 
pletely unnerved,, thinking it an evil omen. He 
could not tell exactly what he felt in the grotto, 
but a cold sweat stood on his brow. 

When the storm was over he tried to calm 
himself by prayer, but in vain. Threatening 
voices sounded in his ears, frightful spectres 
arose on all sides. He could not resist the long- 
ing to be once more near his wife, and to find 
consolation in her sweet words. When near 
Rotsburg he called the watchman, who, recog- 
nizing his master, opened the door. 

Wilfred went into the dining-room, which to 
his surprise was still lighted, unbuckled his 
sword placing it near the mantel — his intention 
was to wake Basilissa, and beg her to share his 
agony with him. 


THE SORCERER.” 


(( 


I51 


CHAPTER XIX. 

TERRIBEE TEMPTATION. 

Suddenly his glance fell on a man’s hat, 
placed on the back of a sofa. His eyes glistened; 
he became pale and frowning, whilst a bitter 
smile played about his lips. He was full of 
thoughts of vengeance, because he immediately 
looked for his sword. But his agitation was 
brief 

“I am crazy,” he murmured, shaking his 
head. “She, the sweet, the good, the faithful, 
the chaste Basilissa! The evil spirit is in me: 
he is accusing an angel . . . Away with such 
weak thoughts! Is this then the first time 
travellers, pilgrims or friends have sought hospi- 
tality at Rotsburg?” 

At these words he rose, and mounted the stair- 
way to join his wife. But he had scarcely opened 
the door of the half-lighted room, when he ut- 
tered a stifled cry. His hair stood on end, and 
he trembled in every limb . . . Had he seen 
clearly? The room was occupied by a man and 
woman. Was it not a delusion? All evils 
seemed to come at once. Ah! this was too 
much! . . . His eyes glared, the blood mounted 
to his head, a feeling of rage tore his heart, and 
he glanced with hatred at the unknown. 


THE SORCERER. 


152 


u 


n 


Then he murmured, ‘‘ This sleep shall be their 
last. Every drop of their blood cannot pay for 
such a crime. My sword, my sword!” 

He went down with quiet tread, dreaming only 
of blood, murder and vengeance. 

He took his sword, and was already remount- 
ing the staircase, when he heard a door open be- 
hind him, and a sweet voice asked him: 

“ Back already, my dear Wilfred?” 

He turned, and saw Basilissa coming from the 
chapel. 

“Heavens! what does this mean?” he cried. 
“ Do my eyes deceive me? Is it you, Basilissa? 
I thought I saw you upstairs!” 

“You were in our bed-room?” she anxiously 
asked. 

“Who, then, is there? Speak quickly! My 
blood boils in my veins.” 

“Two pilgrims to whom I have given shel- 
ter. ’ ’ 

“Why in our room? That is never done.” 

“We owe them every honor, Wilfred. To- 
morrow you will thank me for what I have 
done,” 

“You know them? I wish to know who they 
are! You do not answer? Oh! have pity! Do 
you not see how I am trembling with impatience! 
I command you: obey me.” 

Basilissa approached him, put her arm around 
his neck, and whispered in his ear: 

“I do not know, my poor Wilfred, if I have 


THE SORCERER. 


153 


(( 




done right; perhaps my fears are groundless; 
perhaps you will hear with joy the name of our 
guests. However it may be, I obey your will. 
They are the Count and Countess van Isersteen.” 

“The Count and Countess van Isersteen?” 
roared Wilfred, in a terrible voice: “Great God! 
my father and mother! Oh! the curse!” . . . 

He fell shivering on a sofa. 

“Oh! Basilissa, unhappy woman, what have 
you done? My parents’ sentence has been pro- 
nounced by you! The curse will be accom- 
plished. Do you know to what crime an im- 
pious enchantment has condemned me since my 
birth? If I meet my parents I must kill them 
with my own hands. There is no mercy: no 
earthly power can protect them; I am a blind in- 
strument, a passive slave to the fate which con- 
trols me.” 

His wife tried to recall him to reason, and to 
make him understand the madness of his words. 

“Keep quiet,” he cried, “keep quiet, Basi- 
lissa; all is useless, I feel it. My brain is on 
fire. My blood is boiling. Fly, fly; leave me 
to my terrible fate! In a few moments I will be 
seized with a blind rage, and I will pierce the 
heart of my good and tender mother! See, it is 
commencing already. ’ ’ 

He rose and rushed for his sword, perfectly 
enraged. 


154 


THE SORCERER. 




>) 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE FINAL STRUGGLE. 

Basilissa rushed towards the door of the 
stairway, uttering a cry of fear, closed and 
locked it, and threw the key out of the window. 
We have said that her bedroom was in a tower, 
and only communicated with the rest of the 
Castle by this one door. Consequently, with 
this door locked, it would be impossible for her 
unhappy husband to reach his parents. 

Wilfred, now perfectly beside himself, threat- 
ened her, crying that nothing should stop him. 
He struck at the oaken door with his sword, but 
soon understood, in a confused way, that it would 
take great time to force it. He nevertheless 
continued, so that the entire Castle resounded 
with the violence of his blows. 

The noise awakened five or six door-keepers 
and servants. Wilfred menaced them with his 
dagger, saying that he would lay dead at his 
feet the first who dared to approach him. 

He recognized among them his valet de 
chambre, in whose devotion he had full confi- 
dence. 

“Rigaud,” he cried, “obey me if you wish to 
live! Take a torch and seek below for the key 


THE SORCERER. 


155 


c c 


It 


of this door. If you find it, I will give you five 
silver marks. If you do not find it, you will be 
hung to-morrow.” 

And as Basilissa raised her hands in a suppli- 
cating manner, begging the valet not to obey, 
Wilfred, foaming and roaring with rage, raised 
his sword: 

“Rigaud, if you hesitate another minute I 
will break your neck.” 

The poor valet, seized with a mortal terror, 
said he would obey, and started immediately. 

Wilfred continued his strokes at the door. 

Basilissa, half crazed with terror, tried to take 
him in her arms and calm him. 

And he, in spite of his violence, did not make 
the slightest attempt to hurt her, only repulsed 
her gently. 

The terrible noise of these blows awakened the 
pilgrims: they went down already dressed, and 
remained behind the door, begging for assistance 
against the unknown danger which filled them 
with fear. 

Their plaintive voices acted on Wilfred like 
oil on a flame. He screamed, and struck the door 
with such violence that Basilissa really feared 
it would break in pieces. 

The red light of the torch from the terrace re- 
flected on the dining-room window. Wilfred, 
rushing to the nearest one, put his head out of 
it, crying: 

“Rigaud, Rigaud, have you found that key?” 


156 “the sorcerer.” 

“Not yet, my Lord.” 

“Ten marks — I must have that key or your 
life.” 

Basilissa had fallen on a chair completely un- 
nerved. Profiting by the moments that her hus- 
band was talking with Rigaud, she explained to 
her men what had happened and begged them 
to use their united strength to take Wilfred’s 
sword from him. 

Respect made them hesitate, but yielding to 
Basilissa’s prayers, they surrounded their master, 
took his sword from him, and threw it out the 
window, be3^ond the castle walls. 

“Drag him out of the room! ” cried Basilissa. 
“Take him to the prison above the gate. I will 
go with him. Fasten us up there until to-mor- 
row, and do not open the door of the dungeon 
under any pretext. Do not hesitate, you will 
save your master’s life. I will be grateful to 
you and will reward you abundantly. Courage, 
courage!” 

The men united their strength and tried to 
drag their master away. But he, as strong as a 
giant and furious as a lion, fought with rage, 
and striking right and left, overthrew several of 
his assailants. He was finally overpowered, and 
they dragged him slowly through the narrow 
corridor. 

He roared, ground his teeth and foamed at the 
mouth, but in spite of his resistance he was car- 
ried out into the courtyard, which was brightly 
lighted by the moon. 


THE SORCERER.” 


157 


u 


CHAPTER XXL 

SORCERY CONQUERED. 

When the cortege drew near the gate, it had 
just been opened to allow a man to enter. 

“OGod be blessed!” cried Basilissa. “The 
hermit, the hermit!” 

“What is the matter here?” asked Nyctos, 
alarmed. 

“ His parents are at Rotsburg: he is crazy, and 
wishes to murder them,” answered Basilissa. 

“His parents here? Alas! alas!” 

“Yes, yes, they must die; fate demands it, 
nothing else can be done,” shrieked Wilfred. 
“All is useless. Let me go. Give way, I must 
have their blood.” 

“Alas, reverend father, my poor husband 
went to your hermitage; and if he had found you 
there, this dreadful state of affairs would not ex- 
ist.” 

“I had gone to Saint Mark’s church to pray 
before the altar.” 

“And what can we do now? what can we do?” 

“ Fly from here immediately,” answered the 
hermit . . . “My friends, take him beyond the 
gate; do not release him. If you cannot do 
otherwise, tie him with cords. Be quick, be 
quick!” 


158 “the sorcerer.” 

And acting on the words, the hermit seized 
Wilfred by the arm, and made the others follow 
his example. Wilfred fought so furiously that 
in a few minutes he had repulsed them all and 
darted towards the Castle; but before reaching 
the end of the court, he was again seized and 
the struggle recommenced. 

The roaring of the maniac, and Basilissa’s 
groans, joined to the servants’ cries, made a con- 
fused and frightful din, which resounded through 
the Castle. 

Suddenly a noise, similar to a- hammer struck 
on a piece of brass, sounded through the air. 
The hermit joyfully cried: 

“Midnight! . . . Back, release him, the hour 
of his deliverance has sounded. He is free! 
Free and cured! Thanks, merciful God! my soul 
is redeemed!” 

“My God! are 3^ou telling the truth?” stam- 
mered Basilissa incredulously. 

“Let him rise, you will see,” answered the 
hermit, bending to assist Wilfred. 

The Chevalier rose, and rubbed his forehead 
as if trying to collect himself. Memory came 
to him immediately. 

“Delivered forever — free, I am free!” he joy- 
ously cried, lifting his hands to heaven. “ Basil- 
issa, my sweet companion, where are you?” 

She threw herself on his neck, shedding tears 
of joy and gratitude. 

“My mother, my parents!” replied Wilfred. 


“the sorcerer.” 159 

“Come Basilissa, you must embrace them. 
Fear nothing; my only desire now is to clasp 
them to my heart. The trouble has passed. I 
am calm. A bright light burns in my soul. 
Come, come,” and they entered the castle. 

In the meantime Rigaud had found the key 
and opened the door. The Count and Countess 
van Isersteen were in the room, trembling with 
fright. 

Wilfred opened his arms and pressed his 
parents to his breast. 

“My father, my mother, I see you again! I 
feel your hearts beat against mine! God be 
praised! You must have blamed me. I have 
always loved you. A sorcerer had thrown a 
spell on me. I will explain to you . . . Here 
is Basilissa, my noble and faithful wife, my 
good angel. Love her as a daughter; we will 
live only to make you happy . . . Whether it 
be here, or at Isersteen, we will never leave you. 
This hermit, who was a great sinner, will go with 
us, and bring us the blessing of heaven. No 
more grief — only peace, joy, love and happi- 
ness await us.” 

Joyous cries resounded on all sides, and when 
the sun’s rays first penetrated the salon, they 
brightened the reunion of Wilfred and Basilissa, 
the Count and Countess van Isersteen. 


The End. 


V 


INDEX. 


CHAPTER. PAGE 

I.— The Borough of Iserstekn 3 

II. — The Hunt 8 

III. — The Sorcerer Nyctos .... - 13 

IV. — The Sorcerer’s Secret 18 

V. — Feight 25 

VI. — The Wandering Troubadour 31 

VII. — The Castle of Rotsburg 42 

VIII. — Basilissa 47 

IX.— Dove 55 

X. — Indecision 58 

XI. — The Conquered Horse 71 

XII.— The Bear 79 

XHI.— Love and Honor 88 

XIV. — Love’s Triumph 109 

XV.— Basilissa’s Wedding 118 

XVI. — The Hermit of the Black Rock 128 

XVII. — The Crisis 141 

XVIH. — The Two Pilgrims 144 

XIX. — Terrible Temptation 151 

XX. — The Final Struggle 154 

XXI. — Sorcery Conquered 157 

( 160) 



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